Everything Was Beautiful
by gbbluemonday
Summary: A case goes wrong for everyone, but especially for Cal. And then it gets worse. Updated as of June 11.
1. Chapter 1

Wednesday, 4:40 pm

**Cal**

"Tell us what happened next."

On the screen, the girl gave a shuddering sigh and hung her head. Shame, yes, but she was also trying to cover the bruise over her right eye which had barely faded and was turning one side of her face a blotchy purple. She licked her dry lips, and took another shaky breath before she continued.

"He held me down," she said. "He told me…he told me he would kill me if I tried to escape…he—he put something in my mouth. I don't know—a rag, I think? I couldn't talk. It was hard to breathe."

Another shuddering breath. Tears sprang to her eyes just before her face crumpled—real ones, then.

"Just take your time. There's no rush."

"Yes, there is!" Her head suddenly shot up, tears now pouring down her cheeks, her red and swollen eyes staring at her interviewer—Gillian—with imploring eyes. "He raped me! He raped me, Dr. Foster, and he promised he'd kill me if I told! He promised! He promised…" She trailed off, burying her face in her hands, the ultimate show of shame—or of someone trying to hide their true emotions. In this situation, however, Cal had the feeling it was the former.

"It's all right," said Gillian, in her most calming, soothing voice. Thank God she was in charge of this interview—Cal couldn't pull off that kind of maternal comfort no matter how hard he tried. Something about the accent—it was always easier for Americans to trust people who seemed familiar. And Gillian was perfect—tall, strong, classy, and more than willing to hold the hands of the victims—not nearly as willing to be cruel to get what was needed as Cal was. "We're going to protect you," Gillian went on. "No one is going to hurt you now."

"All right, stop it right there!"

There was a small click and the image paused, leaving a six-foot-tall picture of the girl's sobbing face frozen on the screen. Cal took a short moment to look at it before turning to the man who sat before him, who was wearing handcuffs and a smirk. The man was tall and muscular, would have been handsome if it had not been for the oily sheen on every bit of his skin that was exposed—the sort of sheen which gave the impression that he was perpetually dirty—or that he had just been bathing in grease. Currently he was leaning back in his chair, legs wide open, one finger twitching on his knee. The man tried very hard to keep eye contact with Cal as he turned, but his eyes kept flickering to the face of the girl on the screen, and every time they did, the edges of his lips would twitch, widening his smile ever so slightly.

"You like that, huh?" said Cal, pointing to the girl. "Makes you happy to see her in pain, doesn't it? D'you get off on it?"

That got the man's attention. He turned to Cal, locked eyes.

"No."

"That's a lie," said Cal. "I didn't even have to ask you that one, did I? It's written all over your slimy face. Can we turn this off, please?"

Another click and the image disappeared, leaving nothing but the blank white wall on which it had been projected. Cal lowered his arm slowly, never taking his eyes off of the man who sat before him.

"That girl was found dead in her home last night," said Cal. "Someone broke a window and bashed her skull in while she slept."

Another smirk, and a slight lift of the chin.

"That's a shame."

Cal scoffed. "Yeah. Yeah it is. You know what the real shame is, though? I think you killed her."

The smile flickered. The man straightened in his chair and closed his legs. He leaned closer to Cal, chin stuck out in defiance.

"Oh, yeah? I'd like to see you prove it."

That elicited a laugh from Cal.

"Well, you're just straight out of the movies, aren't you?" he said. "You must think you seem pretty confident, don't you?"

The man sat back, chin still thrust out.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But see, your body language? Yeah, that's telling me something different right now. I can see you smirking every time I mention your victim—you're not as good at hiding it as you'd like to think. That pleasure, that lack of shame—that tells me you're a psychopath." He spat the last word like someone had poured tar over his tongue. He was eager to rid himself of the taste.

A slight curl of the lip—contempt—and then the man answered, "Or maybe I just hate the bitch. She did tell everyone that I raped her, didn't she? I can't exactly say I'm sorry to see her dead."

Cal straightened—it was automatic, not intentional—so overwhelming was his desire to get away from the disgusting creature sitting before him. Luckily this man probably couldn't tell disgust from his own ass, and straightening had a double function: It also made Cal look taller, and thus more of a power figure, more intimidating for anyone sitting on a lower level than he.

"Yeah," said Cal. "Yeah, that sounds plausible enough. Except when I asked you if you killed her, you sat up straighter and closed your legs. That's what we call a defensive posture; you felt vulnerable when I asked you that, didn't you? That's why you felt the need to protect the family jewels, right?"

The man's lip curled into a full-on sneer now, no attempt to hide it. He practically growled at Cal as he said, "I didn't kill that girl."

Cal scoffed again and turned to the blank white wall, behind which sat Loker, Torres, and Reynolds.

"Did you hear that?" he said, pointing to the man before him. "He called her 'that girl.' My friend," he said, turning back to the man, "that's called distancing language. Now, me, I actually prefer 'that girl' to 'bitch,' but at least when you were calling her a bitch you were acknowledging that you two had a personal relationship. Now you're just being cold."

"You son of a bitch," snarled the man. "I never touched that whore."

"Whore," Cal repeated vaguely. "Now, that's neither personal nor distancing. It's just insulting." He turned to the wall again. "I think we've got what we need. I don't have to spend another minute in her with this scum."

With one last contemptuous glance, Cal turned away from the man before him and exited the room just as the walls lost their opaqueness and two policemen shouldered past him to take their prisoner away.

Cal did not stop when his feet hit the floor outside of the interrogation room, nor did he turn to enter the observation room, where he was sure Reynolds and his protégés were eagerly awaiting his assessment. Instead, he went left, walking quickly, heading back into the main office, where it was bright and clean, and where it was easier to forget the greasy face of James Evert, and—more importantly—the sweet face of the nineteen year old girl he had murdered.

Ellen D'Agostino had come to them two weeks ago, brought in by the FBI, claiming that James Evert had raped her. Cal had been surprised—not by the allegation, but that the FBI had brought the case to him. Normally rape was left to the police; apparently ruining a young girl's life was not a matter of national importance. But it turned out that it was not the rape they were concerned with: If the girl was telling the truth—and Cal was certain that she was—then she had been raped by one of the city's most notorious drug lords. Apparently this guy had been evading capture for years; whenever the FBI thought they had a solid lead on the guy, whenever they thought they had enough to bring him in for good, they had turned up nothing—no fingerprints, no weapons, and, most importantly, no drugs. The guy was smarter than the FBI had given him credit for, that much was for sure, but they were hopeful that, with this case, Lightman might prove smarter. Well, in a sense they had gotten what they'd wanted: Lightman knew in a second that Evert was lying, but right now that wasn't enough. Even the word of the world's foremost behavioral scientist wasn't enough to get a conviction—they needed evidence. Evidence which wasn't there. True, they had done a rape kit on Ellen when she had come in, but that had been two days after the rape, and though there was no doubt that someone had beaten her, raped her, and then left her to crawl home alone in the middle of December, there was no way to tell _who_ had raped her.

All this buzzed through Cal's head as he headed for his office, ignoring the receptionist and his assistant as they tried to bombard him with his messages, speeding up as he passed Gillian's office. He had almost made it to the safety and seclusion that his office offered when—

"Lightman!"

Lightman hissed in frustration as Reynolds's heavy footsteps announced his presence feet away from his office. Cal stopped, turned on the spot, and shot Reynolds a deliberately forced smile.

"Can I help you?"

Reynolds came to a halt less than a foot away from Cal, something Cal considered an invasion of personal space, especially since, deliberately or not, Reynolds did it to seem intimidating. The larger man crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Cal, who took a small step toward him, trying to even the playing field despite his disadvantage in height.

"So you're just going to storm off without giving me the rundown of what went on in there?"

"That sounds about right, yeah."

Reynolds sighed in frustration.

"Come on, Lightman, work with me. Is the son of a bitch guilty or not?"

"Oh, he's guilty. No doubt in my mind. But that's the problem, innit? It's no good if it's just in my mind."

Reynolds shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, rocking back on his heels to stare at the ceiling. Avoiding eye contact, trying not to show that he was as frustrated as Cal was.

"Are you _sure_ this is the guy?"

"Like I said, not a doubt in my mind. But it's no good. There's no evidence against the guy. We can't hold him without any evidence, right? Have your guys found any fingerprints? DNA? Any evidence that he was ever anywhere near Ellen, either the night he was raped or the night she was murdered? I thought not. And the only witness we have is dead, so there's that. He's going to walk."

He shrugged and turned back to his office, but Reynolds stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. Don't forget, we picked him up busting some guy's face. We can hold him on assault, that's got to buy us some time."

"Yeah? You think the guy is going to press charges? I've got twenty buck says Evert's guys are already out there _persuading_ him to drop everything. Evert will be back on the streets this time tomorrow." Cal shook Reynolds' hand off his shoulder and opened the door to his office.

"Hey."

Once more, Lightman turned back, this time unable to conceal the look of frustration on his face.

"What?" he demanded.

"This isn't all on you, Lightman," said Reynolds. "We all messed up. I was supposed to protect her, you know."

Lightman forced himself to keep eye contact, to not show any of the shame that was gnawing at his insides, threatening to tear him up from the inside until it all came spilling out somehow.

"You're not the one who convinced her to talk, are you? Did you promise her she'd be safe? Did you promise you'd catch the bastard who did that to her and make him pay before he could hurt anyone again? Did you?"

Reynolds sighed, shook his head.

"No."

"I thought not. Excuse me, I have work."

At last he turned away for good, stepped into the quiet dark of his office, and shut the door behind him.

As soon as he was inside, Cal slumped. Not his usual, jaunty, cocky slouch, either, but a true collapse of the shoulders, carrying-the-weight-of-the-world sort of slump which he always felt he had to hide around the workplace. Even more importantly, his face crumpled as soon as he entered his office—not in the sense that he was wracked with sadness, no—he was just letting his muscles relax for once, letting his face become devoid of any sort of emotion at all, so that maybe, for once, he could actually _think_ without having to worry about every little expression, both his own and others. Without bothering to turn on the light, he reached up to rub his face as he walked over to his desk. He could already feel his shoulders cramping in protest, so accustomed were they to the cocky, jaunty slouching.

"Hello, Cal."

Cal actually jumped a little—a sure sign of just how stressful the day had been, for he rarely let his guard down enough to be startled—and brought his hands away from his face.

Gillian. Of course it was Gillian, sitting in his swivel chair with her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap, like some demented version of a James Bond villain. Immediately the jaunty shoulders were back, along with the loping swagger, which he used to cover his surprise as he walked over to her.

"Hello, love," he said. "I'm sorry, I thought I was in my office. Did I misread the name on the door?"

Unlike a James Bond villain, Gillian did not have a look of malice or evil triumph on her face, but a small smile and a crease in her brow which conveyed both concern and affection at once (this was an expression Cal usually loved in Gillian—it was one so few people could pull off with any real honesty). Even more unlike a James Bond villain, she was wearing a deep purple dress with a blue sash around her waist, and even in the poor light it was throwing her eyes into perfect contrast with the rest of her face. She blinked up at him.

"No, I think you got it right," she said. "I was just stopping by to see how you were doing."

"You know you don't have to worry about me, darling," he said, taking the seat across from her. "It's you I'm worried about. I haven't seen you all day."

"I had paperwork to catch up on," she said.

Cal leaned back in his chair and looked into her face, reading the hurt that was there, along with the anger, which most people would have missed. A surge of sympathy rose in him, something he probably would not have been able to muster for anyone else at that moment, torn as he was over the case. Gillian saw the sympathy, and the understanding. _Understanding_. There was another look he rarely gave anyone else. Cal was a great many things, but patient was not one of them—or at least, he did not have much patience when it came to peoples' emotions (he never let anyone share on their own terms)—but Gillian was the exception, and she knew it. Which was why she let him in more than anyone else. Most of the time. And it was why, now, reading the understanding and patience written all over his face, she resigned to it.

"I couldn't face Evert," she said. "Not after what he did to Ellen."

Call nodded. "I understand."

"I hate him."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"I didn't really come in here to talk about my feelings," said Gillian.

"And here you had me fooled," said Cal, grinning. He was not making fun of her. In truth he was pleased that she was worried about him, and that she knew him well enough to know that he was upset without looking at his face. But he didn't know how ready he was to talk about this, or even if he wanted to. Guilt was not an emotion he liked to feel, and it was one he liked talking about even less. In fact, for someone who spent every day examining emotions, Cal spent surprisingly little time talking about his own. This was mostly intentional—for who really needed (or wanted) to know what was going on in the mind of Cal Lightman?—but it was also partly because of his job. His work required him to put on so many faces with so many emotions; sometimes it was hard for even him to tell which ones were the truth.

"Cal, I'm worried about you," said Gillian.

"You don't have to worry about me love," said Cal. "You know I'm always all right."

"That's exactly what worries me."

"You've lost me now."

Gillian sighed and leaned across his desk, resting her weight on her elbows.

"Cal, you're always all right. You never complain about…the emotional strain some of these cases have. Everyone else does, even Reynolds. I'm just worried that if you keep letting all those emotions build up, one day they're just going to spill over and swallow you whole. I know you're blaming yourself for what happened to Ellen."

The smirk slid from Cal's face.

"Nah, love. That would be irrational, right?"

"Cal."

Cal closed his mouth and looked down at his hands.

"I'm the one who got her to talk, Gill. You can't tell me I didn't do that."

"No, I can't. But I can tell you that you're not the one who broke into her house and killed her."

Cal shook his head.

"Listen, Cal. We all made promises to Ellen. I promised her she would be all right. Reynolds promised to protect her. We failed. But if we keep blaming ourselves, we're never going to be able to place the blame where it really belongs—with the man who killed her."

"We're not going to get him, Gill. He's going to get away with it."

"No. No, there's evidence out there somewhere, there always is. We just can't give up on looking for it. You know that, Cal. You know the only way we can make amends to Ellen now is by stopping that man from doing what he did to her to anyone else. So we're not giving up."

But the weight was coming back, a slow and steady pressure on his back and shoulders which was threatening to crush him if he did not do something to stave it off soon.

"Ellen…she was barely three years older than Em, Gillian."

"I know."

"I just keep thinking of how scared she must have been…alone. And of how her parents must be feeling…"

"Cal, is Emily with you tonight?"

Cal shook his head. "She's with her mother till the end of the week, then I've got her through Christmas."

"Well, then let me come over. I'll make you dinner."

That got Cal's attention, forced him to look up. Doubt pulled his lips back and forced him to hiss just a little bit at the proposition: all he wanted to do later was curl up inside a bottle of scotch and watch reruns of Jeopardy, and that is something that does not need witnesses.

"I dunno, love…"

"No. No, I'm not letting you brush me off, Cal. You shouldn't be alone tonight. You need company, you need to talk, for once, and you need good food."

"I'm a better cook than you!"

"Fine, then you can cook for me. But I'm still coming over."

With that she stood, walked around the desk, and said, "I'll see you at seven thirty, all right?"

Before Cal could object any further, she had touched his shoulder softly and walked out of the room, with just a trail of sweet perfume behind her, leaving Cal sitting in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Wednesday, 7:30 pm

**Gillian**

As she got ready, Gillian could not help but think that she was not really doing this for Cal's benefit.

_Not_ that she didn't want to be helpful. Gillian was always willing to help when it came to Cal, always ready to do what was required to get him through another day, just as he was always willing to do for her. But where Cal's sort of help came in the form of great heroic gestures and self-sacrificing routines wherein he always managed to obtain justice for all parties involved, Gillian's sort of help was more low key, less flashy, and probably, ultimately, less effectual. A comforting pat on the back or a hug on a doorstep were all well and fine—for some people they literally were a panacea—but not for Cal. There was always something buried, something which could not be drawn out with a gentle touch or a kind gesture, some deeper emotional turmoil which Gillian did not know and therefore could not understand. Up against that, she always felt ineffectual. As his friend, she often felt ineffectual as well, and whenever she felt she had managed to break some ground, he came up with something new to surprise her, something to show her just how little she really knew about him.

When Terry had shown up, for instance—more importantly, when Cal had told her his back story _with_ Terry—that had nearly knocked her off her feet. She had been so secure in the knowledge that she _knew_ him…he had told her about his mother's suicide; she had been there through his divorce, as well as through the nasty business with the Department of Defense, and so naturally she had thought, Well, what else could he have to hide? But a childhood of poverty and crime…well, that was a big something.

Which was why Gillian was beginning to suspect that she would never really be able to help Cal in the ways she would like to. How could she, when in truth she had no idea what was wrong? And yet, despite knowing this, she was going anyway. Why? The only conclusion she could come to was that she needed someone to lean on right now, and as long as she was there, Cal could try to lean on her too…if he wanted to.

She didn't bother changing before she left the house—just the slacks and the loose, silky blouse that Cal had once complimented because it "deviated from her norm." This was part of their routine, on those nights when they did have quiet, personal dinners and long talks (nights which seemed to be getting rarer lately): Nothing fancy, no pretentions, no pressure—just the way they liked it. It was a break, and they treated it as such, because after hours and hours of reading into tense situations, there was nothing either of them needed more than an environment where no tension was necessary.

As she got into the car, Gillian couldn't help but wonder whether Cal knew how much she needed this right now, whether or not he knew that she was going over partly because this case had been too much…because every time she thought of Ellen D'Agostino she saw a flash of herself being knocked to the ground and grabbed by her hair and dragged away from her car…She wondered if he knew that every time she thought of Ellen dying, she thought of how grateful she was that she wasn't dead for the same reason, and how the guilt twisted her stomach just for thinking it….Chances were good that he did. Like Emily, Gillian often insisted that Cal not read her, because she didn't want him to think of her the same way he thought of all of the criminals that flowed in and out of their office every day, but lately she felt like that was a futile request. The ability to read lies wasn't something Cal could turn on and off. Maybe he used to be able to do that, but not lately. And especially not now, when the case was falling apart around him and he was busy blaming himself for it.

Ah, well. Thinking about it was doing her no good, as she realized when, distracted, she took a wrong turn and ended up in the parking lot of a liquor store. Typical. Trust her to get lost going somewhere she had been a thousand times. Well…as long as she was here.

Gillian was already late, but she parked the car and cut the engine nonetheless. Cal wouldn't be able to be angry at her for it—after all, he was not exactly the picture of punctuality himself—and besides, he probably wouldn't be done with dinner yet anyway. And although she was sure he had an ample supply of bourbon and scotch, a little red wine never hurt when you were trying to forget your troubles. Grabbing her purse, she stepped out of her car into the chilly night.

Though it was December, DC had not gotten any snow since October, just a lot of freezing rain and some sleet ("That's global warming, eh love?" Cal had said). Gillian's flats slipped all over the parking lot as she walked over to the liquor store and through the doors, and she was just wondering whether this had been a very bad idea when the doors hissed open and she looked up. With a little thrill of excitement, Gillian realized that she had somehow stumbled into the nicest liquor store in DC, which also happened to be one of its best-kept secrets. Her girlfriends had told her about this place (several of them had come here for weddings or similar fancy occasions), how it only stocked the best champagne and wine (and had only a small section for beer—all imported), but none of them had ever revealed its location, each one of them insisting that it was something you had to find on your own: That was part of its charm. She smiled as the doors slid shut behind her, deciding to take this as a good sign: perhaps things would start looking up from here.

Despite it being relatively early on a Wednesday evening, there was no one else in the store, and only one man working the registers. He was at least twenty years older than she, and wearing a brown suit, reading a magazine about vintage wines. He smiled and gave her a small wave as she entered, then immediately turned back to his magazine. Gillian could only assume he was the owner or the manager—employees were rarely so well-dressed…or interested in their work.

She walked through the aisles slowly, wanting to warm up before she headed back to the car. Her friends had been right—their selection was excellent, refined, and way out of her price range, especially since she had taken a small pay cut after Cal had bought Zoe out, just until the company was solidly back on its feet. She didn't mind not having the money—living on her own meant fewer expenses—but there was still no way she was going to spend one hundred dollars on a bottle of wine, not when Cal's scotch would do the job just as well. Nevertheless she walked down the aisles for a few more minutes, until the feeling had returned to her fingers, enjoying the impressive selection and making a game out of finding the oldest bottle on the racks ("How old are you, exactly?" Cal would have said). When she had had her fill, she turned to leave, promising herself that she would come back when she had the money, or when the occasion warranted it. And she saw it.

Her heart skipped a little as she spotted the bottle and she sped up to reach it, pulling it off the shelf with fumbling fingers. It was a fifteen dollar bottle of blonde chardonnay, probably one of the cheapest in the store, but that didn't matter. This was _the_ wine—the one she had been searching for for nearly seven years. This was the wine she and Cal had drank to celebrate the opening of the Lightman group. It had been cheap then, too, because they couldn't have afforded anything better right at the start, but they had both agreed (and maybe it was just the euphoria of the moment) that it was the best wine they had ever tasted. Gillian had always wanted to find another bottle, to see if the experience was real or an illusion, but she had never been able to find another bottle. And yet here it was, the same wine, same vineyard—same year, even. It _had_ to be a sign.

Things were looking up.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Gillian pulled into Cal's driveway and stepped out into the cold once more, this time clutching the bottle of chardonnay, around which the storekeeper had tied a large red ribbon ("Special night?" he had asked, seeming not to care that she was buying the cheapest wine in the house. Gillian had smiled and replied simply, "It might be."). A little smile was playing about her lips, and she felt better than she had in days. Stopping only once to adjust her blouse, she walked up to the front door. She was a little surprised to see that there were no lights on in the front room, but it was not particularly unusual. Trust Cal to sulk in the dark. Brushing it off, she knocked on the door.

There was a scuffling from inside, but no one came to answer. Frowning a little, Gillian knocked again. More scuffling, this time sounding like it was coming from the kitchen, but still Cal did not come to the door.

"Cal?" she called at last. "Cal, I can hear you in there! Let me in, it's freezing out here!"

More scuffling, this time followed by a little thud. Now _this_ was unusual. Since when did Cal not answer the door—especially when he was expecting company? The smile was gone completely and a little thrill of fear found its way into Gillian's chest. Had something happened?

"Cal, I'm coming in."

She adjusted her grip on the wine so that she was holding it like a club and tried the handle, fully expecting the door to be locked. But with nothing more than a little turn it swung open. Taking a small breath to steady herself, Gillian stepped across the threshold.

Inside the house was totally dark—not just the front room, but the whole thing. There was no more scuffling now, no sound at all, not even from the kitchen, where Gillian suspected no food was waiting. Heart pounding, she reached for the light switched and flicked it, but nothing happened: the power was out.

Her breath coming very fast now, Gillian took another step into the house.

"Cal?" she called, and was immediately ashamed at how small her voice sounded. This sort of frightening situation was exactly the sort of thing Cal was good at. He was not supposed to be the object of her dread.

Her inquiry was met with silence.

"Cal, are you in here?"

There was another thud, and this time she could definitely tell that it was coming from the kitchen. Terror—real terror—was gripping her now, for she had never known Cal to not come running when she called his name, and surely he would have phoned if something else had come up. Though she tried to stop it, her mind was running through every horrible possibility: heart attack (no, he's in fantastic shape), car accident (of course not, his car is in the driveway), tripped down the stairs (not careless enough), victim of a burglary gone wrong (ha! She would feel sorrier for the burglar)…or something worse.

Raising the bottle of wine to shoulder height, she stepped around the corner and into the dining room.

For a moment she saw nothing. Then she screamed.

Something had just stepped out of the shadowy kitchen.

"Cal! Oh, you scared me!"

Gillian pressed a hand to her chest, as if this would help slow her pounding heart, feeling the numb warmth of relief as it filled her fingers and toes. He was not dead…all of the horrible scenarios were washed from her mind in an instant, though she had to set the bottle on the table to prevent her shaking hands from dropping it.

"What are you doing in the dark?" she asked, still trying to cover up how flustered she was. "Why didn't you answer the door? You knew I was coming over."

But Cal said nothing. He simply stood in the doorway, shrouded in darkness, staring at her. A flutter of fear found its way back into Gillian's chest.

"Cal?"

"What're you doin' here, Gillian?"

Gillian blinked. "I told you I was coming over for dinner. Why are all the lights off?"

Cal grinned lopsidedly and took an unsteady step toward her. "I was just looking for the fuse box, love. Lights are out."

As Cal took the step, Gillian saw for the first time that he had something swinging loosely from his right hand—a whiskey bottle. It was mostly empty.

"Cal. Are you drunk?"

In response, Cal took another step and nearly stumbled into the wall. Still grinning stupidly, he raised the whiskey bottle and shook it, letting the contents slosh around in the empty spaces.

"Drunk is as drunk does, princess…whatever that means. I think I'm drunk is, don't you?" His face scrunched up into a look of intense concentration as he pretended to think about it. "Or maybe I'm drunk does. Like I said, I don't really know the difference."

The fear was gone, along with the relief. Gillian stood stock-still, torn between anger and sympathy. It had been a long time since she had found Cal alone and drunk. Not since Zoe.

"Cal. Look at me."

Cal blinked a few times and looked up at her blearily.

"What the hell are you doing, Cal?"

He paused, as if he were unable to understand the question.

"I'm drinking, I think. D'you want some? Plenty to go around."

He stuck the bottle out in front of him and shook it again, like a toddler offering a toy to a playmate. Gillian took a step toward him.

"Cal," she said again, trying to sound gentler this time. "Cal, you know you can't drown this case."

Cal lowered his arm and looked down and away. So there was still some shame under the inebriation. A second later it was gone again, replaced by the bleary-eyed grin.

"Not trying to drown anything, love. Just having a drink with myself in my own home—nothing wrong with that, right? What're you doing here anyhow?"

Gillian stopped mid-step, unable to stop the look of hurt which flitted across her features.

"We were supposed to have dinner, Cal," she said, reverting to her patient psychiatrist voice. It was better if she treated him as a patient right now. She didn't think he could handle treating him as a friend.

"Oh," said Cal, still grinning. "Whoops."

"Cal, I think you should give me the bottle. I think you've had enough."

She reached for the bottle, but Cal drew back.

"How would you know how much I've had, eh? You haven't been here. Though it looks like you're keeping an eye on me now. That's why you're here, eh? Tryin' to keep an eye on me?"

"I told you, Cal, I'm here for dinner. Now give me the bottle."

"Dinner? Now why is it I don't remember inviting you for dinner?" Once again, Cal pretended to think about it. "Oh, yeah—s'cos I didn't invite you, did I? I think you invited yourself."

Another surge of hurt, this one even harder to conceal than the last. Gillian could think of nothing to say.

"And why is that, love?" Cal continued. "Why is it whenever something bad happens, you always come running to me, eh? You think I've got nothing to worry about for myself, is that it?"

"Of course not. Cal, of course not!"

"Well, what is it then? Cos you're not here for my benefit, that's for sure."

Gillian could not believe it. The look he was giving her could not have been clearer—it was contempt. He was looking at her with contempt, something she never thought she would have seen in an expression intended for her, not in a million years. But it was unmistakable, and so forceful it made her knees want to buckle beneath her right then, because she did not think she could stand—didn't think she could stand ever again, maybe—if Cal Lightman was contemptuous of her.

_He's drunk_, she reminded herself. _He's drunk, and he doesn't know what he's saying._

The thought gave her just enough strength to take a deep breath and step closer to him.

"Cal, what happened to your head?"

Cal ducked, trying to hide it, but it was too late: Gillian had seen. A shallow cut, invisible before she had taken that last step, was slowly oozing blood on Cal's forehead. Cal put a hand to the wound and brought it back down. He stared at the blood for a moment, then let out a short barking laugh.

"I guess I tripped, didn't I?"

"You didn't even notice? How much have you had to drink?"

"No. No I didn't notice. I guess it's too bad I didn't have Gillian here to watch my every move, right? Too bad the wonderful Dr. Foster wasn't here to hold my hand."

Gillian could no longer keep the tearfulness out of her voice. Despite the bleary, unfocused look in his eyes, the hatred in Cal's face was more cutting than any knife.

"Cal," she whispered. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Cal. Cal, Ellen…Ellen wasn't your fault. She wasn't. You need to stop beating yourself up over it."

"Oh yeah?" Cal said, and now the hatred was joined by anger. He raised a wobbling finger and pointed it in her face, sneering. "What would you know about it? Maybe some people can just go home and feel good about themselves after something like that, _love_, but not me."

Gillian steeled herself, drawing herself to her full height.

"If that's what you think—"

"I think you should leave."

Gillian froze.

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not leaving you alone."

Cal's nose wrinkled in disgust and…something else, something Gillian was too upset to name, too upset to care about.

"Get out, Foster."

"No."

"GET OUT!" Cal roared. He took a step toward her, then another, forcing her backward, herding her toward the door.

"I'm not leaving, Cal!"

But Cal, it seemed, had reached the end of his tether. He seized the bottle of chardonnay from the table, shouted, "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!" and hurled the bottle at the right wall.

Gillian's hands sprang to her face as the bottle exploded and wine flew everywhere, drenching the wall and the carpet, missing her and Cal by mere inches. Cal was staring at her, breathing hard, the whiskey bottle still clutched in one hand. She could already see a flicker of regret in his face, but it no longer mattered. She had gone numb. Slowly, she turned and walked to the door, her arms hanging at her sides, her head empty. At the threshold she paused, without any conscious thought about doing so, and she turned. Tears blurred her vision, but when she spoke, her voice shook only a little.

"There've been a lot of men in my life, Cal," she said. "You've known most of them. You know…you know how most of it has ended. But Cal…" She took a deep shuddering breath. "Nobody breaks my heart like you do."

Cal stared at her, still breathing hard. She said nothing more. She simply turned and left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning—language**

Wednesday, 6:45pm

**Cal**

Home. Thank God.

For once, Cal was glad Emily was not with him. She didn't need to see him like this—nor did anyone, for that matter. He was a mess and he knew it, running on too little sleep and too much stress, and probably looking forward to another day filled with more of the same whenever he managed to drag himself out of bed for another round. Right now all he wanted was a bath and a glass of the finest scotch he owned (which, to be honest, was not very fine), but he would probably have to forego the scotch, at least for another hour. If he started drinking now he would just get angrier, probably do something stupid that he would regret the next day. If he waited for Gillian, he could be the ridiculously silly drunk (which she called "Kind of adorable") and not have to worry about overdoing it.

Gillian. Thank God for home and thank God for Gillian, although at this moment they felt almost synonymous. Little as he was willing to admit it, Cal was about as close as he had ever been to falling apart, and right now Gillian was the only thing holding him together. He may have objected, but in truth he had been more than relieved when she suggested dinner: It had saved him the trouble of turning up on her doorstop in the middle of the night…once again.

It was not just this case—though undeniably that did contribute heavily. It was everything, every case, every fight with Zoe, every time he had to worry about Emily (occurrences which seemed to be getting more and more frequent the older she got—God help him when she left for college), and, yes, the fact that he had convinced a nineteen year old girl to do the very thing that probably got her killed. He was tired, he was weary, he was too worn-out to be at his best for anyone, and apparently it was beginning to show: this was the first time since working with the Department that he had been sure of someone's guilt and still been unable to do anything about it. How Evert was managing to cover it up—that was what was bothering him most. Evert was a genius in many ways—he had to be, otherwise there was no way he would have been able to finance and carry out one of the biggest drug trades DC had ever seen—but not when it came to deception. He was one of the worst liars Cal had ever seen, and it went without saying that that was saying something. There was no way he could pull of a deception this complex on his own, and no one believed that he was. He probably had about a dozen guys working on keeping him safe, which by all accounts should have made the trail of evidence even wider, what with all those men blundering around attempting a cover-up, and yet the FBI had not found one scrap of proof—save the testimony of a dead girl.

Cal sighed and rubbed his head, which was already pounding with the day's events. He had one hell of a migraine headed for him, he could already tell (since he'd been having—and hiding—them for several months), but he was going to have to endure it for now. A quick glance at the time as he walked in the door told him that he had less than an hour until Gillian arrived, and she had given him the task of preparing dinner. Nix on the bath as well, then. A shower was going to have to do. Casting his coat aside and shutting the door, Cal wondered whether Gillian would notice if he ordered Chinese and called it his own creation. Probably. She was damn perceptive.

Trying to delay ascending the stairs just a little longer, Cal kicked off his shoes, then gathered them up and reached for the light switch so that he could find their proper place in the closet. But the lights did not come on. He flicked the switch a few times, but to no avail: the hall remained resolutely dark. Grumbling, Cal leaned around the corner to try the light in the dining room, and found that those lights were also stubbornly refusing to work.

"Perfect," he said. "Really perfect."

Perhaps he had thanked God a little too soon. Since he lived in one of those wonderful houses where the water was controlled by electricity (and whose idea was that, exactly?), no power meant no shower. It also probably meant no cooking, as he couldn't very well use his electric stove now. He would have to order takeout after all (although at least now he had an excuse), but first he had to get out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable, and more appropriate for his evening with Gillian. No longer able to postpone it—and with the throbbing in his head climbing in volume and amounts of pain—Cal tossed his things aside and climbed the stairs.

Once in his bathroom, Cal swapped his slacks for jeans, his button-down shirt for a polo, combed his hair, and applied a fresh batch of deodorant. Almost as good as a shower. That done, he headed into his bedroom and picked up the phone. But when he held it to his ear he got nothing but a dial tone.

It was dead.

"You have got to be kidding me," he groaned. "There's not even any bloody weather."

What sort of companies let the phones and the electricity go out when there was hardly even any wind? The only excuse Cal could think of was that someone had hit a patch of ice and slammed into one of the poles that supported the power lines—at least, that was the only excuse he was going to accept. And that still didn't explain the phone lines.

Still grumbling, thinking of all of the strong words he was going to use in the letter he was planning to write to the phone company, Cal grabbed his cell phone off the bed where he had tossed it and had the number for the Chinese place he and Gillian both liked half punched in when something made him freeze mid-dial. It was a thud, so soft he couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it, and it was coming from Emily' room.

Stowing his phone and straining his ears, Cal took a few steps into the hallway, but the noise did not repeat itself. He waited. Nothing. He turned back to his room, frowning, and—

There! Another noise, not a thud this time, but a soft scuffling, like someone rummaging through a drawer, and it was definitely coming from his daughter's room.

Cal, not being one to hesitate, immediately headed in that direction. Had Emily arrived early? Or perhaps some sort of animal had gotten in. Emily did have a tendency to leave her window open; it would not be the first time a bird had flown in and gotten stuck.

"Emily?" he called softly. "Em, love, is that you?"

Immediately, the scuffling ceased.

Now that was very odd, and not like his daughter in any way at all. Frowning even more deeply, Cal took the final step and opened the door to his daughter's room.

Inside it was dark, like the rest of the house, and Cal couldn't see a damn thing as he stepped inside. As soon as he did this he realized his mistake—he ought to have brought some sort of weapon, in case his suspicions had not been correct and something more sinister was going on. But he saw nothing. The room was as dark and silent as any other in the house, perhaps more so (for the absence of his daughter was felt more acutely in this room filled with her things). The window wasn't even open.

The window…The frown which was wrinkling Cal's brow deepened as he looked outside for the first time and noticed that his neighbors were home—something he knew because they were standing in their very well-lit bedroom, arguing. As he watched, the woman (whose name he had never bothered to learn) stormed out and turned the lights off on her way.

"What the hell?" Cal muttered, once again drawing his cell phone, this time fully intending to call the power company and demand an explanation. He was sure he had paid his bill on time…

But before he could dial even two numbers, Cal was being knocked off his feet as something hard and heavy hit him across the forehead.

The shock of being hit was so great that for a moment Cal was not aware of the increased pain in his already throbbing head. In fact, for a moment, he was not aware of anything at all, save for the little white lights which were popping in front of his eyes like explosions from a felled power line. When he came back to full consciousness, he was rolling on the floor, clutching his head and spitting blood from a bitten tongue, two dark, blurred shapes standing over him.

"Take his phone," said one of the shapes, his voice growing louder then softer, then louder again, as if through a badly-tuned radio. Cal saw the other one lean down and pick his phone up.

"Smash it," said the first.

The second lifted his phone and crushed it against the corner of Emily's dresser.

Underneath the shock, a vague irritation bubbled to the surface.

"What'd you do that for?"

The shadowy figures ignored him. The second (which was scrawnier and slightly shorter than the first) tossed the crushed remains of Cal's phone aside and leaned over to heave him to his feet. Before Cal knew what had happened, he was falling onto the bed as his ankle throbbed white hot beneath his weight—it seemed he had twisted it on his way down.

"You stay there," said the larger shadow, and, squinting, Cal registered vaguely that there was a gun pointing in his face. He spat a bit more blood onto the floor.

"Oh, this day just keeps getting worse," he said, more to himself than anyone, for he had not yet managed to shake the blurriness from the edges of his mind. He could not think—fear had not yet had the time to register. Nor had the migraine he had been anticipating had time to manifest, but Cal had a feeling that the hearty blow he had sustained—he thought probably from the lamp which was usually sitting on his daughter's nightstand, now lying on the floor—had more than made up for that. Blinking hard, Cal pressed a palm to his forehead. Even in the dim light he could see the sticky shine of blood as he withdrew it.

"I'm bleeding," he mumbled.

"Hey—hey, I think maybe you hit him too hard."

"What?"

"He's acting all funny—look, he's like, talking to himself."

Cal looked up as the voices, which were very, very far away, started conversing. _Snap out of it, Cal…_

"What the hell are you talking about? No, not you. I'm talking to the kid. Yeah, I've got him right here. No, he's not tied up. Because I've got the fucking gun, pointed at him, that's why. No, not yet, you fucking moron, we've got to—!"

"Seriously, man, his eyes are going all funny!"

The voice in the back of his head was telling Cal that it was very, very important that he pull himself back to reality, that he was in danger, but he felt as if he were stuck between two open doors, one filled with darkness, the other with light, and the one which was dark was having a strange magnetic pull on him, so that he was almost able to ignore the voices which spoke out of the light…although they were having a very strange conversation…

"Can't you see I'm having a conversation? Hey! Wake the fuck up!"

A sudden slap and a stinging in his cheek. The second jolt did what the fearful voices in his head could not: Cal was brought back into Emily's room with a snap.

Confusion. Fear. Anger. The emotions came and went so fast Cal barely had time to register each of them before they were replaced by something else. The resolute determination, the stoicism—Cal quickly readied his mental arsenal and assumed the persona he always adopted in times of crisis: calm control.

"That better?" the larger man said to the smaller one. His vision clearing, Cal could see that the bigger one was tall and well-muscled. He had a ruddy, sweaty face and currently had a cell phone pressed to his greasy ear. As Cal watched, he pressed the gun into the smaller one's hands with a grunt of, "Keep an eye on him," before turning his back on them completely. The smaller one—o, God, he looked like he was barely out of high school—took the gun like it was a robin's egg and stared at it.

"You're going to want to direct that at me at some point during this interlude," said Cal.

The boy jumped. He flashed Cal a look of fear, and then raised the gun unenthusiastically.

"It's better if you keep quiet," he said in a voice which sounded ridiculously small and adolescent coming out of someone who was holding a weapon to a man's heart.

"Is that so?" said Cal. "Mind if I ask you one question?"

He had to keep the boy talking, get a better read on him, and possibly a read on what the hell was going on. The larger man was still on his cell phone.

"I don't think that's a good idea," said the boy, fear still permeating his features.

Cal flashed his cockiest smile.

"Come on," he said. "Just one won't hurt. I mean, you've clearly got the upper hand here." He gestured at the gun in the boy's hands. The boy followed the gesture, one quick glance at the gun with a flash of horror, as if he could not believe what he held in his hands, before looking back up at Cal.

"Just one," he said. "And make it quick."

"All right," said Cal, still grinning. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Hey." The larger man was off his cell phone, and he was glaring at Cal with no signs of fear in his features—just resolution, pride, and a little bit of contempt. "What the hell are you two doing chatting? Give me that." He jerked the gun out of the boy's hand. The boy looked relieved to have it gone. "You." He pointed the gun at Cal with a limp wrist, trying his best to appear casual. "Get up."

Cal put his hands above his head and got unsteadily to his feet. His ankle throbbed painfully in protest, but he ignored it for now.

"Not going to answer my question then?" he said. "You did just break into my house and bust my head open, don't you think that's a little rude?"

"Yeah, it's eating me up inside," said the man. "Now shut up and tell me where you keep your laptop."

Cal grunted, heaving a huge sigh of exasperation. "Oh, please tell me you're not robbing me! I've been gone all day—why not do it while I'm out? You obviously had no trouble getting in here." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the exits, keeping an eye on the man's face the entire time. Nothing—not a flicker of regret or remorse. That decided that then; he was going to have to go for the boy.

"We're not robbing you," said the man. He raised the gun. "Now where's the laptop?"

"I'm actually liking just talking at the moment."

A dangerous snarl of anger curled the man's upper lip, and he raised the gun so that he was pointing it directly in Cal's face. Cal automatically shrank away from it, holding his hands out in defense.

"All right, all right! It's in my bedroom, I'll show you."

Still not taking his eyes from his assailant—for the man was obviously unstable, and now was no time to attempt an escape—Cal pointed to the doorway and allowed the man to round his back and press the gun into the small of his back before he led them into the hallway and into his bedroom, limping all the way. As they entered the bedroom, he cast a quick glance in the boy's direction. He looked sick and guilty, watching Cal's limp. That was the sign Cal needed—if he was going to manipulate his way out of this situation, the boy was going to be the way to do it. He made the limp more pronounced, pleased with the wince it elicited from the boy before they came to a halt.

"Where is it?" the man asked, jabbing the gun a little harder into Cal's back.

Cal winced a little himself, rolled his head as if to loosen the muscles in his shoulders (showing the man an exaggerated amount of stress and exasperation, which was no doubt what he wanted to see), and pointed to the dresser, where his laptop lay dormant. The man nodded to the boy.

"Get it."

The boy jumped like a scared rabbit and retrieved the laptop with fumbling fingers. The moment the laptop was in the boy's hands, Cal felt a thrill of hope: If what he suspected was happening was actually happening, they might put the computer in his hands, and he might have a chance at sending a message before they realized what he was up to…that was assuming these thugs had not also cut the internet. But the boy did not hand the computer to Cal, nor did the man give any sign that he should do so, although they had to know that the thing was password protected. Quickly, Cal cast around for another topic of discussion, something he could do to read exactly who they were and why they were here (why wouldn't they talk?), and, especially, whether the man had any intention of hurting him further (though he was certain the boy had no intention of hurting him at all). But before he could say anything, there was a tinny beeping from behind him and he heard the man's coat rustle as he pulled out his cell phone.

"Hello? Yeah, I told you, I've got him. Yes, I'm keeping him. No, we still need him, you idiot. Yes. _Yes_."

Well, this was no good. Cal wasn't going to be able to get anything off of the man while his back was turned and had a gun pressed into it, but he couldn't very well turn around to look. So instead he seized his second opportunity and, while the man was distracted, turned to the boy. Time to—quickly—try to build a connection.

"Oi. What's your name?"

The boy gave him a startled look—classic deer-in-the-headlights.

"I'm not supposed to tell you that."

"Right. Fair enough. How about why you're here? Can you tell me that?"

The boy shook his head vehemently, shooting a wide-eyed glance at the man, who was still swearing at whoever was on the phone.

"I'm not supposed to tell you that either."

"No, no. Nah, you misunderstood me. I mean—what're you doing here? You know who I am, right?"

Another fearful glance at the man then, quietly, "Yes. You're the lie person. Lightman."

"Yeah, that's right," said Cal, nodding his encouragement. "And I'm thinking—since you know that—you ought to know that I can tell you don't want to be here. Isn't exactly your game, is it?"

The boy opened his mouth, saw that the man was not paying attention, closed it, and shook his head slightly.

"S'what I thought. Hey. Don't worry. Like I said, you've got the upper hand."

Cal jerked his head back, indicating the armed man. And there it was: a flicker of hope, manifesting in the tiniest twitch of the boy's mouth. But that was all Cal could risk for the moment—at least with the man standing right there. But it was enough. The bond had been established.

Now he just needed to find a way out.

But he was upstairs—trapped, unless he wanted to try smashing through a second-story window. He didn't think he would even get that far; he could still feel the gun pressing in to the small of his back. If he could get a hold of the gun…

But before he could devise any sort of plan for incapacitating the man (who was at least a foot taller than he, and probably a hundred pounds more muscular) there was a hair-raisingly furious shout of "What?" and a large, heavy hand whipped Cal around.

The man was snarling at him, gun held high and clenched tightly in his right hand, hanging from the end of an arm with muscles coiled like a cobra. Cal shrank away from it, his heart speeding up despite his best efforts to stop it when he saw the expression on the man's face: it was the same expression that had been on Eric's when Cal had been sure that he was about to shoot.

"What? What?" Cal shouted, flinching.

"Who is she?" shouted the man, spit flying from his mouth.

"Who is who?"

"You know Goddamn well who! The woman outside—who did you call?"

Oh, God. Oh, God, Gillian. He had forgotten—totally forgotten that she was coming over. For the first time, real panic settled into his chest and sent his hands shaking. He couldn't let Gillian get involved—couldn't let this monster get his hands on her.

"Who the fuck is she?"

"I dunno!"

But this was a mistake. Faster than Cal could blink, faster than he had ever seen a man of that size move, the man had seized one of his fingers and wrenched it back. Cal could hear the pop as it broke.

"Aghhh!"

"Who is she?!"

Clutching his now-mangled index finger, Cal shook his head, panting with the effort it was taking not to scream again.

"She's no one!" he yelled. "I didn't call anyone—she's just a friend, we were supposed to have dinner!"

"Shit," said the man, lowering the gun temporarily so that he could stare wildly about, as if searching for an exit. "Shit! Why the fuck did you ask her here?"

"I didn't—I didn't! Just—just let her leave! Just don't answer the door!"

"You left the door unlocked, you dumb shit!"

"Shut up!"

The boy had crossed the room and was leaning out into the hallway, staring down at the front door. They fell silent, except for the heavy breathing of the man with the gun.

There was a knock at the door.

The man grabbed Cal by the collar, swung him around toward the door, and gave him a shove into the hall (the boy sprang out of the way). Cal's ankle seared, but he managed to catch himself mid-stumble.

"You had better take care of this—and fast."

"Listen—no, listen! She works with me—she'll know I'm lying. She's good."

"Well then maybe we should invite her in," snarled the man.

"No!" Cal said, his hands flying out in the "stop" signal, so huge was his horror at the prospect of Gillian being dragged into this. "No, no. I'll take care of it. Just give me a minute."

"If you tell her anything—give her any sort of signal—if I even _think_ she's going to the police…"

"I know, I know!"

Another knock. Cal had lost all semblance of coolness. He had to think fast. If Gillian suspected—even a little—what was going on, he would never get her to leave. And if these men were who he suspected they were, she would be in even more danger than he was if she entered the house. And that meant he would have to do something drastic.

He was going to have to hurt her.

"Cal? Cal, I can hear you in there! Let me in, it's freezing out here!"

That was it. With no more time to think, Cal took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his head, ankle, and now his finger. That done, he launched himself down the stairs, landing with a thud at the bottom and wincing before propelling himself into the kitchen, just as Gillian said, "Cal, I'm coming in."

The kitchen. Cal nearly fell on the linoleum, but managed to find the liquor cabinet. With his good hand he seized the bottle of whiskey he had been saving for a special occasion—it was totally full. Once again forcing himself to ignore his finger, he wrenched the bottle open and rinsed the blood out of his mouth with a single swig, which he spat out in the sink—to get the smell on his breath. He then emptied half of the bottle down the drain—he could hear her footsteps on the foyer and a faint call of "Cal?"—and, just for good measure, sloshed a little down his shirt.

"Cal, are you in here?"

_Thud_. Cal slipped in the whiskey he had spilled on the floor and caught himself on the counter just in time. Gritting his teeth, he straightened and heard Gillian step into the dining room, her footsteps cautious. Another deep breath. He could make no mistakes.

"Forgive me for this, love," he muttered.

And he stepped into the doorway that separated the kitchen and the dining room.


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday, 9:00am

**Gillian**

Nine o'clock. Gillian came into the office right on the dot, albeit an hour later than she would have been on any other day, but impressive nonetheless. No one said anything to her as she walked in, either—at least, the receptionist (a temp, as their regular was on a vacation) did not. A few of the more menial employees gave her quick glances, but that was probably not because she was late, and none of them would dare say anything: she was as much their boss as Cal was. Almost.

Loker and Torres were nowhere to be seen.

So, holding her head high, Gillian took her messages from the front desk, nodded to anyone who looked her in the eye, and strode into her office with her usual walk—straight-backed, hips swaying. But she could not keep the tight-lipped frown from her lips, and was relieved when she entered her office and was able to shut the door behind.

She threw her mail down and sat at her desk, not really in the mood for work. Instead she pulled out a small compact mirror and proceeded to examine her face—checking to see if there were any signs that she had…not slept well the night before, then going on to pick apart her expression. She had applied her makeup flawlessly, of course. The deep circles beneath her eyes were completely covered, and the red rimming them was barely noticeable. _So like you, Gillian_, she thought. _Always classy_.

It had to be the expression, then, that was throwing people off. And she _did_ look sour—a sort of "I'll kill anyone who opens their mouth to me" look (though that was certainly not the technical name. Smiling wryly, she snapped the compact closed and threw it back into her purse. Well, unfortunately, she lacked Cal's—usual—talent for concealing her emotions. People were just going to have to deal with her sourness for now.

Or perhaps they were not staring because of the blatant expression of distaste on her face. Maybe Cal had already found some new way to antagonize them—which, if he were feeling the hangover he undoubtedly had, he would certainly have done.

And there was the reason for Gillian's lateness. Had she come in at eight, he probably would have been waiting for her, would have accosted her in the parking lot or as she walked into the building. Maybe he felt guilty. Chances were he didn't even remember what had happened last night. Either way, she didn't really care. Yes, he had been drunk, and yes, he had said worse things in the past (not to her, of course, but she was certain he had said similar things to Zoe when they had been at the end of their marriage, for it had always been her he had come to the next morning, filled with regret, and he certainly still loved her—or had, when the fighting had occurred. At least, that was the way Gillian had rationalized the incident, over and over in her head during the sleepless night). But Gillian was not ready to forgive him. Not yet.

So her plan for the day—which so far was going swimmingly—was to come in late enough for Cal to think that she wasn't coming in at all and then get paperwork done until the end of the day, when she would sneak out fifteen or twenty minutes early. The last bit was the only part she was worried about; Cal knew her too damn well, he'd probably be waiting for her. Maybe she should make it an hour.

And with that thought, Gillian shook herself mentally, focusing on putting her mind entirely to the many tasks which lay in a stack on her desk, and got to work

* * *

Thursday, 11:50am

Gillian had almost made it all the way to lunch when there was a knock at her door and Reynolds popped his head in.

"Hey," he said. "Mind if I come in?"

Gillian, whose heart had leapt as soon as she heard the knock, sighed and nodded.

"Of course, Ben. Come sit down."

Ben Reynolds had an expression on his face which suggested that he was suppressing a large amount of anger, but it softened slightly at Gillian's gentle invitation, and he ducked into the room quietly, shutting the door behind him. As soon as it was closed, he slumped slightly, relaxing his shoulders. Gillian was used to people having this reaction when they entered her office. Unlike Lightman's, which, as Loker had pointed out, "Looked like it belonged to a serial killer," Gillian had selected everything in her office—the furniture, the color scheme, even the way things were arranged—to have that calming effect. She found it was one of the easiest ways to gain the trust of a suspect or their loved ones. Cal…well, different people, different methods.

Reynolds stepped closer and she indicated the chair, which he took.

"What's the matter?" Gillian asked as he sagged into the chair. "You look pretty upset."

Reynolds sighed. "Yeah, well, I actually stopped by to tell you about that."

He paused, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Though he probably didn't realize it, he was gauging her expression, trying to predict what her reaction would be once he told her whatever was causing all this anger. Luckily, most of that morning's irritation had worn off, and Gillian was able to arrange her expression into one of polite interest and lean across the desk to rest on her elbows. Reynolds heaved another heavy sigh before continuing.

"They released Evert this morning."

"_What_?"

"I know. But there's nothing we can do about it. We haven't got the evidence to hold the guy. No proof no case, remember?"

"But I thought Cal told you he was guilty—I mean, he was absolutely positive!"

"I know. And normally that would be enough for me to at least hold the guy, but Evert had got money coming out his ears—he's got three of the best lawyers in DC on retainer. The DA isn't about to go up against that, not if they can help it. We had no choice."

"What about what you've been saying? You said there has to be some evidence somewhere, right? We just haven't found it yet."

"Yeah, well, I'm starting to think maybe I was wrong about that. I've been back to that house at least fifteen times, and I've never seen a cleaner crime scene."

"Why don't you let me take a look at what you've already collected? Maybe there's something we missed."

"You think you can spot something that four different teams of forensic investigators and some of the best men the FBI has got—not to mention Lightman—failed to see?" said Reynolds, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Forget it, Foster. We're gonna have to drop it or we're just gonna go crazy thinking about it. Maybe we'll get him on the next one." He stood to leave, then paused, giving a little scoff. "Though I'd like to try telling that to Lightman." He turned.

"What?" said Gillian, frowning. "You mean you haven't told him yet?"

Reynolds shot her a look of confused surprise.

"No, he hasn't come in yet. No one's seen him all morning. That's weird, right? I mean, this is they guy who had us on video surveillance while he was in Mexico, you'd think he'd have at least called. But maybe it's better, right? I think I'm gonna have enough of a job cleaning this mess up with the press without having to deal with Lightman freaking out." He gave a short, dry chuckle, and took a few steps in the direction of the door. Gillian stood up, and just as her head was beginning to buzz with worry coupled the desire to quell that worry, he paused, frowning, and turned back to her.

"Wait," he said. "You mean Lightman didn't tell you he wasn't coming in? Aren't you supposed to be his partner in crime?"

Gillian's lips tightened into a short, hard smile and she nodded briefly before looking down on the pretense of arranging the notes on her desk. "Yeah, something like that."

Another scoff from Reynolds, and a smug smile crossed his features. He turned fully and stepped back toward her.

"Okay," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, "I may not be a lie detector, or whatever you people like to call yourselves, but I've been in plenty of bad relationships and I'd know that look on a woman's face from a mile away. What happened?"

Gillian laughed shortly and threw her notes down on the table.

"Nothing happened," she said. "It was stupid. It _is_ stupid."

"And yet you're still pissed about it."

Gillian looked up at him, another excuse ready of her lips, but seeing the look of interest and sympathy he was giving her, the words died on her lips. Her shoulders fell.

"I went to his house last night," she said. "We had a fight. He was a little drunk."

"Damn," said Reynolds. "Well, that explains a few things. You okay?"

Gillian nodded and looked down, ashamed at the tears which were threatening to rise in her throat at the admission. "Mm-hm."

"Hey." Reynolds took another step toward her, reaching out to grab her hand briefly. "Whatever he said, I'm sure he didn't mean it. When I saw him yesterday he seemed about ready to blow his top over the case. I shoulda seen it coming. I'm sure he's at home beating himself up now, but it'll blow over. At least he's not here beating us up, right?"

"Yeah."

"All right." Reynolds released her hand. "You take it easy, Foster. Let me know if you want me to kick his ass when I see him."

Gillian laughed shortly. The laugh sounded slightly hysterical. "All right. Thanks, Ben."

He nodded, gave a small sympathetic smile, and left.

* * *

Thursday, 2:30pm

After lunch Gillian felt refreshed, better, perhaps even ready to brave the world beyond her office. She had not heard anything about Cal coming in and, feeling sure that Reynolds would have told her if he had, she felt brave enough to walk over to the video lab to check a piece of evidence from a previous case against her notes. Perhaps she ought to have deliberated more carefully, however, for although there was no Cal (as she had predicted) she was bombarded by Torres and Loker nearly the instant she walked into the lab.

"Hey," said Torres, striding up to Gillian with her usual wide-eyed invasiveness. "How are you?"

"Fine," said Gillian shortly: she had not been counting on this encounter, and immediately she regretted leaving her office. Of course Reynolds had told her about the fight, and if she knew, it was a sure bet that Loker did as well. And sure enough, as Gillian dodged around Torres and made a beeline for one of the computers, Loker said, "Hey. I hear you and Lightman had a fight."

"Loker!" Torres hissed.

"What?"

Torres rolled her eyes and turned her back on Loker as he shrugged and turned back to his computer. She followed Gillian over to _her_ computer, ignoring the obvious attempt to shake her off, and stopped a foot in front of her, so that Gillian had no choice but to look at her.

"Are you okay?" Torres asked. For the first time, Gillian was annoyed at the fact that Torres had ever worked for TSA: It made everything she said sound like a demand.

"I'm fine," she said. "What are you two working on?"

"Nothing. We don't have a case. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, before Lightman left he told us to go through and reorganize some of the old case files—"

"Because apparently we don't have a secretarial staff," Loker muttered from the corner.

"—but we're having trouble accessing the files. We were wondering whether you—or maybe Lightman—had changed the passwords?"

Gillian finished what she was doing, straightened, and walked to the other side of the room to check the paper file, Torres trailing after her like an overeager puppy. She sighed at the second failed attempt to shake off Lightman's protégé.

"Which files?"

"Um…all of them."

That got Gillian's attention. She turned away from the file cabinets to face Torre.

"What? What do you mean all of them?"

"I mean we can't get to them," said Torres. "It's like someone changed the pass-codes for the entire system. We're blocked out. We've been trying for hours."

Gillian sighed. This was not something she had the patience or the resources to deal with at the moment, and she was already eager to hole herself back up in her office.

"I didn't do anything to them," she said, shaking her head. "You'll have to talk to Dr. Lightman."

"But—he hasn't called in yet. He's not answering his cell and his home phone sounds like he took it off the hook. I just keep getting an error message."

Really, Cal? She knew he was the king of sulking after the one-shirt era (post Zoe), but this was a little excessive.

"Well, you're just going to have to wait until tomorrow, I guess, because I don't know what he did to it. And I'm sort of busy right now, so…"

She turned to leave, just in time to see Loker give Torres a wide eyed stare and jerk his head in Gillian's direction.

"We were—actually, we were wondering if maybe you would call him?"

Gillian said nothing.

"Whoa," said Torres, leaning back. "That was a lot of anger just now." She frowned as she stared into Gillian's now-exasperated face, considering her—just the way Cal would have, had he been here. "You called him Dr. Lightman earlier too, and you only call him that when you're around clients…jeez. What happened with you two?"

There was a whoosh of breath from the corner and Loker quickly turned his chair away from the encounter on the pretense of working on his computer. Gillian suppressed the urge to roll her own eyes at him, exhaled through her nose, and turned to Torres.

"Ria," she said. "Dr. Lightman—Cal—can teach you a lot of things, but now I'm going to ask you to take a lesson from me. Sometimes it is better to just drop it."

She wasn't saying it to be mean—in fact, she said it in her usual, helpful voice. But Torres looked stunned nonetheless; it was as if Gillian had just slapped her.

But Gillian was not in the mood for apologizing. Gathering her things, she shook her head once, walked around Torres and out the door.

* * *

Thursday, 4:55 pm.

It was nearly five when Gillian emerged from her office again, this time toting her coat and purse, ready to leave. She saw Loker and Torres, still laboring over the computer in the lab, but if either of them saw her they did not acknowledge her. Reynolds would have already left for the FBI offices some time ago. She cast a glance in the direction of Cal's office, but the door was closed, and she knew that if she opened it she would find it dark and empty inside. Instead she shook her head and hitched her bag up on her shoulder. She turned to go. She walked past the lab and the offices, the meeting room, and had just passed the desk when, against her better judgment, she turned back.

The temp was just packing up for the day, already out of her seat and gathering her things Gillian, still shaking her head at herself, tapped lightly on the desk to get her attention.

The girl looked up. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Sorry," said Gillian. "I know you're on your way out. I was just wondering whether Dr. Lightman had called while I was in my office."

The girl shook her head. "Sorry, no. Agent Reynolds told me to watch out for a call, but I never got one."

Gillian nodded, a disappointment chewing at her stomach.

"Thank you."

The girl nodded, and Gillian exited the offices. Once in the hallway, she pulled out her phone and hit a number on her speed dial.

The machine picked up without ringing. "You've reached Cal Lightman of the Lightman group. Leave a message."

There was a beep.

Gillian hung up the phone.


	5. Chapter 5

Wednesday, 8:01pm

**Cal**

"Nobody breaks my heart like you do."

Cal said nothing. Nothing to the tears in her eyes. Nothing to the way her hands trembled and fluttered as she grabbed the doorknob and flung it open. Nothing to the way she walked—no, ran—out of the house. He said nothing as he heard the car start in the driveway, and nothing as he watched the headlights disappear into the dark cold night which lay beyond the walls of his house—his house which no longer held any comfort.

Cal did not move. He simply stood, breathing hard, one arm hanging lower than the other with the weight of the whiskey bottle, watching the empty space where Gillian had stood moments before. Slowly the pain seeped back, dripping into his every pore like the wine that was dripping down his dining room wall and into his carpet. He was saturated with it. Gradually he became aware that he had jammed his broken finger when he had opened the whiskey bottle, and now it was throbbing and searing, hammering out a rhythm of heat in time with his heart. Steady. Steady.

Why hadn't she just left?

Why did she make him do that? Throwing the wine—_that_ wine—was just about the worst thing he could have done to her. It was unforgivable. If he ever got out of this, he would not blame her if she did not forgive him. But in a way it had been a blessing. If she had not brought the wine, he might not have been able to get her away. Apparently it took a lot to get Gillian Foster to walk away.

But walk away she had, and now Cal was standing in the doorway that separated his front room from his dining room, trying to kick his brain back into overdrive when he heard the inevitable pounding of footsteps on the staircase. Cal turned his head listlessly in time to see the man thud his way down, the boy trailing behind him. Before Cal could react, the gun was back in his face.

"That was fucking brilliant," said the man, drawing level with Cal and leaning so close to his face that he could smell the sourness of his breath, like spoilt milk. "You should be in Hollywood."

"I do what I can," said Cal flatly.

He dropped the whiskey bottle. It hit the ground and rolled to the boy's feet, sloshing what was left of its contents all over the floor. Cal shook his hand, as if he could shake the pain out of it, but the throbbing only grew worse, now accompanied by his ankle and his head. All together they made like a band made of nothing but the percussion section, and it felt as if it were playing discordantly right next to Cal's ear.

"No, I'm serious," said the man, his mouth still uncomfortably close to Cal's face, though Cal could do nothing more than lean away and avoid eye contact, "you should win a fucking Oscar." He laid a hand on Cal's shoulder, his lips now so close to Cal's ear they could have touched it if either of them had moved a fraction of an inch. "Really…beautiful."

"Get off me!"

Unable to stand it anymore, Cal raised an arm, striking the man's meaty hand from his shoulder and pushing him away. This had no effect whatsoever on the man, who was harder than brick, but it did cause Cal to misstep on his bad leg and he fell to the ground. He only just managed to catch himself in a sitting position, though he slid a little on the wet floor, coming to a halt with one arm still raised.

The man's nostrils flared, his lip curled in disgust—and, Cal thought, a terrifying manic amusement—and he delivered one swift kick to Cal's side before Cal could raise a hand to stop him. Cal gave a short grunt as the wind was knocked out of him entirely and he automatically curled up on his side.

"Hey!" shouted the boy, starting forward.

"He's fine," said the man. He pointed the gun directly at Cal's head. "Get up."

The boy let out a shaky breath, and though Cal was still gasping for breath, he glanced up in time to see the boy give him a fearful, pleading look—begging him to obey. Apparently Cal was not the only one here who believed that the man was capable of killing him. At last he forced himself to take a deep breath, swallowed, and rolled over onto his hands and knees. For a brief moment, however, he could not find the strength to stand, or to lift his head, which felt inordinately heavy. He rested his forehead on the cool hardwood for just a second, hating himself for the image he was creating: he looked as if he were kowtowing at the feet of his assailant. It was only this—a trace of whatever pride he had left—which got him to push himself to his feet. He staggered, regained himself, straightened his shirt, and dusted himself off. A quick self-assessment told him that his ribs were not broken, though he would probably have one hell of a bruise in the morning…if he even made it that far. He glared at the man, hatred welling in him, but he was in no shape to do anything about it now. All he could do now was try his hardest to stay alive long enough to make sure the man spent the rest of his life in prison.

"Was that really necessary?" he said.

The man snorted. "You're funny, you know that? I kind of like this guy," he added to the boy.

"Flattered," Cal said.

There was not a trace of remorse or fear in the man's face, though the boy as practically shaking with it. In fact, there was real amusement making his mouth twitch at the corners—he was taking pleasure in Cal's pain. A genuine psychopath. How many of these people could one man meet in a lifetime?

The door was still open. Cold air was blowing in, dry and frigid, and Cal suspected it might start snowing soon. But the cold was nothing to worry about now. Maybe—just maybe—if he got out the door he would be able to make an escape. Much as he hated to draw anyone else into this, perhaps if he made enough of a scene, got the attention of as many people as he could, he could avoid doing any more damage. The man might have been willing to threaten an unarmed woman, but it did not take a genius of any sort to see that his main concern was not being caught…no way they would attack him in the middle of the street in a crowded family neighborhood.

First, he needed a distraction.

"All right," he said, his voice still coming out in a pant. "You've got the computer and I don't imagine you would need me any further, unless you really are as inept as I suspect you to be. Why don't you take it and go?"

_Real smart_._ Insult the guy with the gun_. But Cal's anger toward the man had not yet had time to dissolve back into his veil of calm collectedness.

"That's not part of the plan, Doc."

Before Cal could reply, he heard the low rumble of a car engine outside the open door, and he turned around in time to see a black van roll past the door and then pull into his driveway. He turned back to the man.

"You're kidnapping me?" he said, incredulous. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Does it feel like a joke?" The man raised his gun, so that he could point at Cal from above. If he had not been on the receiving end of it—if, perhaps, he had been watching a tape of it in his office—Cal might have laughed or scoffed. That gun was saying, _Look how big and tall my penis is_.

Instead, he shook his head.

"Not particularly, no."

"Then move."

He shoved Cal toward the door. Cal raised his hands above his head—all right, he'd comply—and, regaining his footing after another painful stumble, stepped out into the cold, clear night. The man was close behind him, letting him feel the hard metal of the gun. "Hands down. Move fast and don't make any noise," he said, and then he backed off to such a distance that it would not look like he was herding Cal into the van.

Cal allowed himself to be steered into his own driveway. What choice did he have? No way could he make a run for it now; he realized as soon as he started moving that it was a stupid idea in the first place—he could barely walk as it was. He was beginning to understand just how handy it was to have someone with a gun around at all times. Cal had more than his fair share of experience with criminals, that was for sure, but he almost always had the upper hand, and these men seemed to have recognized that that was how he liked to operate. The man had caught him off guard, virtually incapacitated him, threatened his friend…there was little else he could have done to weaken Cal's defenses—and what was more, he had not given Cal the chance to weaken his. He did not have time to try now—the man was entirely uninterested in sympathy, probably incapable of it, and of course Cal could not wear him down with the long con. He would have to go with his original instincts—target the boy.

"Get in." The man had stepped around Cal and opened the van's sliding back door. He jerked his head at the dark interior and Cal climbed in, giving the man just the tiniest look of disgust when he did. There were no seats in the back, just two overturned wooden crates marked "Fragile," pushed up against the back doors to stop them from sliding around. Cal supposed he was meant to sit on one of them, and so he took the one on the left, so as to get a better look at the driver. He was a beefy, unshaven man who did not even glance at Cal as he entered.

The boy also came in through the back and took the crate next to Cal—good—while the man shut the door behind them and then climbed into the front seat.

"Move," he said to the driver.

The driver did not say a word. He simply complied. As soon as they started to move, the man flicked on the radio and turned it up—some trashy hip-hop station that Cal didn't think anyone in the van enjoyed. He was just covering up noise in case there was any commotion. In case Cal tried anything.

But the music had a double function, one which the man no doubt did not intend. It gave Cal the opportunity to talk to the boy with less of a chance of being caught.

"Hey," he said, keeping his voice just soft enough to be audible over the hammering beat.

The boy had been staring at his hands as they pulled out of the driveway, and when he looked up his eyes were shining and his eyebrows were drawn together in an expression of deep confusion and sadness. Cal wanted to pity him (whenever he was dealing with youth he thought of Emily reflexively) but he couldn't afford it at the moment. The best he could do was put on some semblance of caring.

"You mind if I ask you a question? Hm?"

The boy shook his head.

"What're you doing with these idiots? You seem like a pretty good kid, eh? And it doesn't take an expert to tell that you don't want to be here. So what is it then? I'm assuming this whole affair's got something to do with money, m' I right? Your family need the money?"

The boy averted his eyes, but there was the tiniest inclination of his head—a nod yes.

"Ah. I see. Well, that's understandable, you know. I've got a family, too. A daughter 'bout your age, actually, and I'd do just about anything for her—I swear I would, and no second thought about it. Especially if I thought she needed my help. In fact, there's only about one thing that would stop me from taking on the world for her."

The boy looked up, curiosity mingling with confusion swimming in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"I don't think she'd want me to, you know? I don't think she'd want me to get hurt on her behalf—and I wouldn't want to hurt her by doing anything foolish. So what I'm wondering here is what your family would think if they knew what you were doing. Do they know what you're doing?"

Cal expected another nod. Instead, the boy's eyes flickered onto the front seat for a millisecond. Cal's own eyes widened with realization.

"Is he your family?"

The boy's eyes widened in fear as he realized that he had inadvertently revealed something which he was not supposed to have. He shook his head vigorously, but the damage was done.

"Is he your brother?"

The boy was trembling now, glancing fearfully at the man in the front seat, his knees bobbing up and down.

"Please don't say anything to him!" he begged. "Please, he didn't even want me to come along, I'm the one who said I could!"

Cal put his hands out to stop the boy, grimacing. The last thing he needed right now was to have attention drawn to them by a tearful teenager.

"All right, all right." He tried to sound soothing. "You don't have to worry, I'm not here to tattle." He flashed the boy a casual grin and then winced and grabbed his head.

"Are you all right?" The boy leaned forward in concern.

"Yeah, I just always get a bit of a headache when someone wallops me with a—what exactly did he hit me with?" he asked, squinting up at the boy with one eye. Time to play the sympathy card.

"Lamp," said the boy quietly. "Listen, I'm really sorry. I didn't know he was going to do that. He told me no one was going to hurt, that's the only reason I volunteered to come."

Cal considered the boy for a moment, then nodded.

"I believe you," he said. "Though I wish I could say the same for your big brother. He didn't happen to tell you what he wanted with me, did he?"

The boy shook his head, leaning away once again.

"I'm not supposed to say anything."

Cal nodded again. Don't push it.

"I thought as much. Well, I'm not here to get you in any trouble, all right? I just don't much fancy the situation, if you know what I mean?" A halfhearted, lopsided grin. "Though by the looks of things you're not too keen on it either."

The boy swallowed hard. "I just wanted to help my brother. We get twice the money if there are two of us working the job…and they needed another guy."

Cal nodded slowly. "They say why they needed you?"

"They just said it was important."

There was a long pause. Cal could see through the windshield (there were no windows in the back) that they had pulled onto the main streets, but he could see no signs or other indicators of where they were taking him. For all he knew this trip could be over in a matter of minutes. He had to speed things up.

"You know what I just realized? We weren't even properly introduced. I have a first name, you know. It's Cal. I'd shake your hand, but…" He held up his broken finger, which had already swollen to twice its normal size and was turning a nasty purple, though the throbbing had ceased some.

The boy gave a small smile and sniffed.

"I'm Dan," he whispered.

Cal nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"It's nice to meet you Dan. Well, not really. But you know what I'm getting at, right?"

Dan nodded and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"I'm, um—I'm really sorry about all of that." He gestured at Cal to indicate the numerous injuries which were proof of his brother's broken promise.

"Yeah, well, it is what it is, Dan. I'm just hoping it doesn't get any worse. Though by the looks of things…" He thought of the perverse pleasure he had seen on Dan's brother's face and closed his mouth. He did not care to find out what the smile meant.

"Oh, no, you don't have to worry!" Dan said. Now that Cal had gotten him talking, he as leaning forward, eager to have someone to talk to who did not deride him at every opportunity. His stance suggested a great desire for friendship, something to which Cal was only too eager to yield, provided Dan returned the favor. "I made sure before I came. My brother promised me he wasn't going to—you know…" He nodded, confident that this was enough to paint a mental picture for Cal. Well, he was right about that. Quickly, Cal scanned the boy's face, but all he found was the same eagerness, and a bit of a smile which he supposed was meant to be comforting.

"I believe you, Dan," he said at last, leaning back. "I believe that you believe what you're saying. But—forgive me—it sounds a bit like what he told you about not hurting anyone, doesn't it?"

Dan opened his mouth, but he was distracted from speaking when the van slowed to take a turn and pulled right into a parking garage. Through the windshield Cal could see the cement pillars and empty spaces. The echo of the tires on the asphalt was loud enough to be heard over the music. He was almost out of time.

"Listen, Dan," he said quickly, getting as close to the boy as he could without leaving his seat, "Dan, d'you remember what I told you about my daughter? Her name's Emily Dan, she's about your age, and I think you'd like her a lot if you ever got to meet her. Thing is, Dan, I know you're telling me the truth when you say your brother promised not to kill me. But I think your brother was lying, all right? I think he lied to get you to play along, and as soon as he's got what he wants out of me he's gonna break his promise. I'd like to see my daughter again, Dan. And to do that, I'm going to need your help."

Dan stared at him, wide-eyed and confused. He shook his head.

"What are you talking about? You're going to be fine, just do what they want."

_Come on, Dan, open your eyes_.

"No," Cal shook his head. "No, Dan you're not listening to me. I'm the lie guy, right? Well, your brother"—he pointed—"is lying to you. He's gonna kill me unless you do something to help me out. Now I think—no, I _know_ your mum or dad or whoever you're doing this for, they wouldn't want you to become a killer. _You_ don't want to become a killer. And I _really_ want to see my daughter again."

Lightman as getting more frantic as they climbed levels. Any moment now they would park the car and his chance would be lost, but Dan was not doing anything. He was just sitting there and…a small smile was forming on his lips.

"Dr. Lightman," he said, "don't worry. I know my brother. He wouldn't lie about something like that. I promise, no one is going to kill you."

The smile got wider as he spoke. The kid was actually _amused_ at the idea that his brother had lied to him, showing every sign of denial in the book. He truly did not believe his brother to be capable of killing, and Cal had no more time.

"Dan, listen!"

But it was too late. The driver had pulled into a space on an abandoned level of the garage and thrown the van into park. Dan's brother reached over and turned the radio off with a pop, then turned in his seat to face the two in the back.

"Showtime," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

"Cal. It's me. Listen, I know you probably think I'm mad at you—or maybe you're mad at me, I don't know. Either way, we need to talk. Please call me back."

_Beep_.

"Cal, it's Gillian again. Why is your cell phone off? I know it's been a weird week for everyone, but you can't just not come to work and not call, it's not like you. Call me."

_Beep_.

"Okay, Cal, I know you probably think I'm still angry with you. I'm not about to say that I'm not. But you could at least _try_ to act mature about this and return some of my messages."

_Beep_.

"I just got a call from Loker, Cal. He's working late because he can't figure out what's wrong with the computers, and neither can Torres. We need you at the office, so…give me a call as soon as you get this message."

_Beep_.

"Cal. I'm…I'm starting to get really worried. I called Emily and she said you hadn't been by Zoe's. Your home phone is constantly busy. If you don't call me back this morning I'm coming over there. So call me. Please."

_Beep_.

* * *

Friday, 12:45pm

**Gillian**

Gillian was sitting in her office, staring at the clock and swirling her uneaten salad with a fork. She was contemplating her phone, which was sitting silently in her purse, not having rung all day, and sitting on the idea of picking it up and giving Cal another call, but she stayed her hand. He would call. She was sure of it. And when this turned out to be something stupid, a three-day bender or moping session, she wanted to be able to stay mad at him without having to feel embarrassed that she had been so worried.

But she _was_ worried. Not as worried as someone else might have been in the same situation, but it was Cal she was waiting on—Cal, the man who openly admitted to a lot of drug use—albeit "research related" drug use. Cal, the man who liked to wander into war zones to get his highs. Cal, the man who _had_ disappeared for three days when his wife had left him and returned only when Gillian had called the police for fear that he was lying in a ditch somewhere dead. Cal, who had made her promise she would never overreact like that again. That he could take care of himself.

And truly, this was the only thing that had kept Gillian away for so long—that and her anger and pride. But last night—as her head had begun to clear and worry began to set in—she had given in and called him about fifty times. Now she was beginning to realize that it was probably irrational _not_ to check on him…she could at least stop by his house and make sure he was not dead. Then she could go back to being angry in peace.

But she had not gone that morning. Chances were Cal would be back at work of his own accord, for he never liked to miss work if he could help it, and the hangover, at least, would be gone by now. Gillian had even come in a little early, hoping to catch a glimpse of him as he walked (or stormed, which seemed more likely) in, but no such thing had happened. He was still not in. And her worry was mounting.

Gillian had not been lying when she said that she had called Emily. It had been late last night, but Emily had sounded more awake than Gillian felt, and not the least bit worried. Gillian, of course, had been careful with what she had said, not wanting to burden anyone else with her worries, but she did not mention this in her message to Cal. Maybe if he thought that Emily was worried about him it might provide some incentive to give word that he was still alive.

Emily had merely said that she had not seen him (Gillian had made it sound like Cal had been in to work, but that they had needed to reach him for some other matter), but that had had been "weird all week" and was probably working somewhere that he couldn't hear his phone. Gillian had accepted this as a possibility, thanked Emily, and gone back to her worrying.

She had put Loker and Torres on lookout as soon as she had realized Cal was not there. They were to alert her as soon as they saw him, but so far neither of them had been in, and every time she had passed one of them in the hall, all she had gotten was a little frown and a shake of the head. She knew both of them were as curious as she was about where he had gone (though probably not as worried), but she suspected that they were reigning each other in, as each had refrained from questioning her about it. For that, at least, she was grateful.

The one person she had opted not to include in her worries was Agent Reynolds. Much as she was sure he would be useful in tracking Cal down, she thought the approach might be a little too militant, and the last thing she wanted to do now was panic. He didn't know that Cal had not come in to work, even, because he had not either. Unlike, Cal, however, he had called in. There were no new cases from the FBI. No need for him to be there.

But now she was fed up with waiting. Her lunch hour was at one, and so she was eating early (although she had not actually touched any of her salad) so that she could take that time to drive over to Cal's house, make sure he was all right, maybe yell at him for a while, and then get back to work secure in the knowledge that she had done everything she was required to do as his friend and partner.

Watching the clock was unbearable, but Gillian had no intention of leaving early. At some point during the night her mentality about the situation had done a flip: she was now _hoping_ that he was sulking around his house, because it was preferable to any alternative, and the only situation she was willing to accept. And she was not about to let Cal think she was the one coming back to him. No, she was just a concerned friend who happened to find some time during her lunch hour to check up on her business partner.

But why was the clock moving so _slowly_?

At twelve fifty-five, she could stand it no longer. Throwing the salad into a drawer, she gathered her purse and her coat and closed up her office. She passed Loker in the hallway—he gave her another morbid shake of the head, which she ignored—and walked straight to the reception desk.

"Do I have any messages?" she asked, before the girl could say anything.

"No, ma'am, but—"

"I'm going to take lunch, all right? But will you please let me know if Dr. Lightman calls? In fact, will you forward it to my cell?"

"Of course, but Dr. Foster…"

"Yes?"

"Um…you have a visitor."

The girl pointed over Gillian's right shoulder. Gillian glanced behind her to see the slight figure of Emily Lightman standing in the waiting area with her back turned to the receptionist's desk. It looked like she was on the phone, but she was standing hunched over in a protective stance and kept running her hands through her hair anxiously.

"How long has she been here?" Gillian asked sharply.

"Ten minutes, I think. I didn't know whether I should let her in. She doesn't have an appointment…"

But Gillian was no longer listening. She had already abandoned the receptionists desk and was striding over to Emily, hitching her bag up on her shoulder as she went.

"Emily?"

Emily started at the sound of her name and turned around suddenly, lowering her cell phone. Gillian felt an inexplicable tug of panic near the base of her abdomen when she saw Emily's face: the girl's eyes, though quite dry, were even wider than usual, and her mouth was ever so slightly open—the expression of a person in shock.

"Emily, are you all right?"

"Oh, Gillian," said Emily. Her eyes were searching over Gillian's shoulders, looking everywhere except her face. What Gillian had observed from behind was even more pronounced from the front: Emily's shoulders were drawn up and tense, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. Her right hand was clutching her cell phone so tightly her knuckles were turning white. "Hi. Um, the new receptionist didn't know who I was…I'm sorry, I was just wondering if you'd seen my dad?"

Gillian shook her head. "I was just about to go look for him, actually. Sweetheart, are you feeling all right? Do you want to sit down?"

Emily shook her head vaguely, her eyes no longer searching but staring into space. Whatever Gillian had just said had done nothing to alleviate what was troubling the girl; by the looks of things she had made them worse.

"Emily, why aren't you in school? Where's your mom?"

At last Emily looked into Gillian's face. What was written in her features was not only fear, but also a hopeless pleading, the look of a lost child. It was terrifying.

"I'm on break...," she said. "I was supposed to stay at Mom's this week, but she had to fly to Denver this morning for some sort of emergency with one of her clients. She told me to go to Dad's."

Gillian's heart leapt.

"Emily, did your dad do something? What did he say?"

But Emily was not listening to Gillian. She was telling her story, and she lowered her gaze to Gillian's shoulder as she tried to remember the details.

"I wasn't supposed to go until this evening, when he got home, but I kept calling his cell phone and getting the message, so I thought maybe he'd left it at home. I was just going to go over and make dinner to surprise him, you know? But when I got there…the door was open."

Gillian's stomach plummeted. Cal may be called into question on a great many issues of responsibility, but when it came to his daughter he was as straight as an arrow. If he was ignoring Gillian's calls, that was one thing, but ignoring Emily's…And the door. Cal never even left his door unlocked, let alone open.

But Emily's story was not over. She took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed on.

"I thought…well, I actually don't know what I was thinking. But I went inside. The whole place smelled like…" She wrinkled her nose in disgust as she recalled the smell of the house. "…like wine. And there was a big bottle of whiskey spilled all over the floor. I kept calling for him, but he wasn't answering, and I was too scared to go inside." For the first time, her voice broke a little bit. "I didn't know what else to do. I called the police."

Gillian could not think of anything to say. He heart was pounding, a numbness filling her fingers and toes. She realized that her mouth was hanging slightly open and she closed it, reaching for Emily's shoulder, but she stopped halfway there and put it to her own mouth instead.

"Should I have done something else? Should I have looked for him?"

Seeing the look on Gillian's face had set Emily into a minor panic. She was shaking her head slightly, scared and bewildered. She thought she had done something wrong. But Emily had done nothing wrong. She was not the one at fault here. What's more, she was barely more than a child, barely old enough to have driven herself to the office—she needed Gillian to tell her what to do. She needed her to be the adult. So Gillian swallowed hard, lowered her hand, and spoke.

"No," she said. "No, you did exactly the right thing."

Emily sighed shakily, relieved. She nodded.

"What do I do now?"

Gillian was trying to think of this herself, but her mind had filled with the white hot buzzing of panic. What had happened? Had he drunk himself into a coma? Was he in the house, or had he wandered off? Why was the door left open? The only explanation she could think of was _her_—she had not even bothered to close the door when she left…but that had been a day and a half ago…Oh, God, why hadn't she gone over there sooner.

"Emily," she said, trying hard to swallow her emotions, "have you called your mom?"

Emily shook her head. "Her phone is off, I think she's still flying."

"Okay, well, you keep trying her, all right? I'm going to make some phone calls so we can get this sorted out. And don't worry yet, sweetheart, I know your dad and he can be a little…flighty, at times. I'm going to see what I can find out."

Emily nodded, and Gillian put a hand on her shoulder, steering her back toward the reception desk. She wished that Heidi was back, for she could not help feeling a pang of irritation at the temp. As if she needed something else to worry about.

"This is Emily Lightman," she said, and the little girl looked up. "She's going to be waiting in my office for a while. Get her anything she needs, all right?"

The girl nodded, frowning. "Dr. Foster, is everything—?"

But Gillian was already leading Emily (who was walking like a zombie, allowing Gillian to steer her in any direction without resistance) back to her office. Gillian helped her get set up on one of the couches with instructions to rest, watch some TV, and not worry, and then she hurried out.

"I'm going to get this sorted out," she said, and then she closed the door.

She paused for only a moment in the hall to take a breath and gather her thoughts. Still not the time to panic. In fact, this would be the worst time to panic. She had to gather her thoughts, take one thing at a time, and make sure that nothing was missed. There was still a good chance he was fine. He was _always_ fine.

And, this thought on her mind, she set off down the hall.

She found Loker and Torres in the lab, having another go at the computer, which was still refusing to yield any files whatsoever, no matter what password combination they tried. They had only succeeded in making things worse, in fact, because the computer locked them out once for every five passwords they tried. Loker was on the phone with tech support when Gillian walked in, but Torres was on her feet in a second.

"We haven't seen him yet, but we're—whoa. What happened?"

She had caught the look on Gillian's face, which, judging by Torres reaction, was nothing too pretty.

Gillian took a breath and, as quickly as she could, explained the situation. She left out some of the gorier details—like those pertaining to the fight she and Cal had had—but even without them Loker and Torres seemed sufficiently worried. Loker even hung up on tech support.

"What can we do?" Loker asked, as soon as Gillian was done.

"For now just make sure things keep running smoothly. It's probably nothing, I just thought I should let you know. It's…not the first time Lightman has disappeared, and it probably won't be the last. I'm just going to make a few calls to make sure."

She turned to leave.

"We don't have any new cases," said Torres, stepping forward eagerly, "so if you need any help…"

Gillian hesitated. Neither Torres nor Loker were particularly good with people, but there was one thing she needed taken care of at the moment, something she did not think she had the time or the strength to deal with at the moment.

"Actually, yes. Emily is in my office, and she's pretty worried. It would be good, Torres, if you could go in there and take her mind off of things until we know what's going on."

Torres' face fell slightly with disappointment—obviously that was not the job she had in mind—but Gillian did not care. Luckily Torres didn't say anything—she just nodded and set off.

"What can I do?" Loker asked as soon as she was gone. "And may I remind you that I have years more training than Torres, all of which is potentially invaluable in any investigation, especially one pertaining to the man who employs me. Just—so you know."

Gillian gave him a quick, sweeping look.

"Just…keep working on the computers, Loker."

And she left.

Once back in the hall, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed quickly, and put it to her ear.

"Ben, it's Gillian. I think I need your help."

* * *

**A/N: By now you may have noticed that I'm not a big fan of the author's note…I have nothing against those who do them, of course (some people are quite clever), but I am a decidedly uninteresting person, I'm afraid. I do feel like I should add one here, however, to thank everyone who had been reading and reviewing. The response to this story (which started out as a little one-shot which I felt I had neither the time nor energy to finish) has been overwhelming and wonderful. Thank you to everyone for keeping me writing, and I hope you all stick with me to the finish line. :)**

**Also, if you're interested in hearing the song which is partly responsible for inspiring this fic, it's called "This is the Thing" by Fink, and was featured on episode 1.09 of **_**Lie to Me**_**.**


	7. Chapter 7

Wednesday, 8:22 pm

**Cal**

"Clean up your face," said the man. He threw a packet of Wet Wipes at Cal and then proceeded to unbuckle his seatbelt and climb into the back seat. He was still holding Cal's computer.

"Why?" said Cal.

"Just do it," Dan whispered. He was climbing off his crate and onto the floor so that his brother could take his seat. As the man pushed past Dan, Cal pulled out a wipe and began dabbing at the dried blood on his head, never taking his eyes off of the man's face. Cal watched carefully as the man sat down and placed the laptop on the floor, trying to discern his expression in the dim light. Eager excitement. Pleasure. Whatever they were doing here, it wasn't going to be pleasant for Cal.

"Don't just poke at it, clean it up! Dan, will you take care of this?"

Dan scrambled to take the wipes from Cal and, mouthing, "Sorry," took over. His hands were clumsy with nervousness and adolescence, and the result was enough to make tiny bright lights swim in front of Cal's eyes as his head seared in painful protest. He bit his lip to stop from crying out. Dan finished quickly, apparently having done a satisfactory job, for when he was done his brother pushed him away.

"So," said the man, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees so that he could once again blow his sour breath into Cal's face. "I guess you're probably wondering where we are."

I'm actually more interested in what we're doing here—the where doesn't seem like it should be my biggest concern, does it?"

The man sneered at him, scooped up the computer in his thick hands, and shoved it into Cal's.

"Log on," he said.

Cal gave the man a quick, searching look, but there was nothing but negative emotion, nothing to give him a clue as to why they had stopped here to do this. Sighing, he opened the computer and turned it on. Under any other circumstance he would have argued—this violation of his privacy was more than an affront to his pride—but right now he needed to know what the man wanted. He typed in his password and made to hand the laptop back to the man.

"Open your case files."

Cal paused. Well, he already knew this had to have something to do with one of his cases. Though he'd made his fair share of enemies in various previous lives, he didn't think any of them would attack him…at least, not like this. But once again he decided it would be best not to argue. He turned the laptop back to face him (his heart nearly gave out when he saw the picture of Emily that was his background) and pulled up the files.

"Which one?" he said, his voice flat.

"All of them."

Cal actually looked up in surprise.

"What?"

"I said, all of them. I want you to delete them."

"You can't be serious."

That comment was enough to get Cal a swift punch in the stomach. He doubled over, barely managing to catch the laptop before it fell, miraculously staying on his crate. He heard a small whimper from Dan as he coughed, trying to regain his breath, and thought that if he had enough air left to talk he would have told the boy to shut up.

"Do I look serious to you?" The man leaned down into Cal's face.

"All right, all right…" Cal put one hand out as the man once again raised his fist. A second hit wouldn't be necessary—Cal knew the man meant business. "I'll do it, just stop."

The man slowly lowered his fist as Cal forced himself to straighten and hoisted the laptop back into position on his lap.

"I want them all gone. Photos, footage, FBI files, and anything you might have backed up."

Cal swallowed hard, nodding, but he did not understand. Surely the man knew that all of these files were backed up on numerous computers, not just his? It hardly mattered if Cal complied (which he did)—anything he lost here could easily be recovered. It was painful, of course, to watch as years of work disappeared slowly from the computer, but he was sure that the man had some deeper intent than causing Cal pain…although that was obviously part of this.

"There," said Cal. "It's gone."

"All of it?"

"Yeah, all of it," said Cal. "That's about twenty years of my life you've just deleted, you know. What were you trying to cover up, by the way? I don't suppose you could have gotten rid of the one file and saved me all the hours of work you've just caused me?"

"Right, and show you who we are?" said the man. "And I wouldn't worry too much about making up the work if I were you."

Cal swallowed, still panting. His hair was falling in his eyes and he had to look a right mess, but it seemed his part in this game was not over. Once again he tried to offer the laptop to the man, and once again it was refused.

"You have access to the cameras where you work on that thing, right?"

Cal nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Pull them up."

And suddenly, what was going on became brightly, abundantly clear. Cal's heart began to hammer with excitement as he saw what was happening and, possibly, a way to get out of it. He lowered his head because he didn't think he'd be able to conceal the emotions that were running through him, not at the moment, and once again did as the man instructed.

One by one, the screens popped up, each one showing a different angle or room of the Lightman Group. The offices were dark, lit only dimly by the emergency lights. The only person there was the night security guard, and he was sitting at his desk outside the door, his feet propped up on the desk, head thrown back against the headrest of his chair. He was asleep.

"There you go," said Cal.

At last, the man took the computer from him and looked down at the screen. His eye searched it for a moment and then, satisfied, he looked up at Cal.

"You're a smart guy, right? So I'm guessing you've figured out what we're doing here."

Cal nodded. "Yeah, I think I've got a pretty good idea."

"All the files. Nothing funny. Don't let anyone see your head, and don't fucking limp all over the place, you got it? I'll be watching you, so if you try anything funny—if I even _think_ you're trying to send some sort of message…"

"I got it, all right? You know it's not going to do any good, don't you? All of those files are backed up at the FBI offices, or by the police. Anything you're trying to hide, they've got it on file. They'll figure it out."

"Like hell they will," spat the man. "Those jackasses could look for years and they wouldn't see a damn thing. But your people are too fucking observant for their own good. So go on. Let them look on their computers. But you had better get rid of the goddamn files. Got it?"

Cal pursed his lips to stop himself from saying what he wanted to say. He had to keep quiet, for as soon as he was in the building he could easily send an email, or somehow message the guard, or trip the silent alarm which he had had installed under the desks after the incident with Erik. He just had to get inside first. And so he nodded.

"Good." The man nodded to Dan. "Let him out."

Dan scrambled to open the sliding door. Cal braced himself to walk—he was not sure how effectively he was going to be able to cover this limp—and pushed himself off of the crate. He was halfway out the door when the man's voice halted him.

"Wait just a minute."

Cal stopped, turned around.

"I forgot to show you something, Dr. Lightman."

The man dug in his coat pocket for a moment, then withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it to Cal.

"Can you tell me what that says, Dr. Lightman?"

Cal squinted at the paper. Then his eyes went wide. His mouth went dry. He looked up at the man with wide eyes and a feeling like someone had poured hot lead into his stomach.

"Well?" said the man, grinning horribly.

Cal swallowed hard, trying to control the fear and anger which was ripping at him, forcing him to ball his hands into fists. He opened his mouth only slightly to speak, and his voice came out in a shaking whisper.

"That's my ex-wife's address."

"Look at my face, Dr. Lightman."

Cal did not look up. He felt that if he looked the man in the eye he would not be able to resist the urge to tear him to shreds.

"Dr. Lightman, I want you to look at my face when I tell you this. I want you to know that I'm telling the truth."

Slowly, Cal looked up.

"Dr. Lightman," said the man. "I have a car parked outside of that address. If you do anything—if I even fucking suspect that you've done anything—I'll have the two men inside that car blow the heads off your pretty ex and that adorable girl of yours before they even suspect anything is wrong. Now," he leaned far over, so that Cal could see the wide pores across his nose and cheeks, "tell me, Dr. Lightman. Am I telling the truth?"

Cal realized that he'd been holding his breath and let it out in one shaky whoosh of air. The pressure in his head was incredible.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Good. Now go. And for fuck's sake, be fast about it. I haven't got all night."


	8. Chapter 8

Friday, 1:45pm

**Gillian**

When Gillian pulled up to Cal's house fifteen minutes after leaving the office (having left Emily in the care of Torres and, ultimately, Loker, who had insisted that there was nothing he could do for the stupid computer and besides, he knew Emily better anyway) she was startled to see the police cars. She shouldn't have been. She knew that Emily had called the police, but she had expected there to be at most one car—wasn't that what they usually sent for these little calls? A part of her had hoped that they would already be gone, that they hadn't found anything and had dismissed the call as a sill prank. But a larger part of her knew that wouldn't have happened. The operator had told Emily to get to a safe place and then assured her that they would call as soon as they knew what was happening, when it was safe for her to return. There had been no call.

And there was more than one car. Three patrol cars, their lights flashing, were surrounding the driveway, and the door was wide open. Some rookie was stringing yellow caution tape around the yard, and the neighbors were standing in their windows, staring as he did it. Gillian parked her car in the road and got out, ignoring the bite of the cold until she remembered that it had snowed the night that she had left Cal standing in her doorway and she shivered in apprehension. Surely this was some sort of mistake. She was no fool—she knew the cops wouldn't be doing any of this without cause—but there was no way they had found something. Not in Cal's house.

She jogged up to the cop—who was no more than a kid—and stepped in his way, so that he could not string any more of the tape.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Dr. Gillian Foster, I work with the FBI. What happened here?"

She tried to keep her expression flat, her face emotionless. Professional. The cop looked her up and down for a quick moment, and she saw the arousal in his face. Good enough. If it got her what she wanted, she would take it.

"I don't know exactly," he said. "I haven't been inside, and nobody tells me much. I think maybe the guy got killed."

The earth fell out from beneath Gillian's feet. _Killed_. Had they found him, then? Was he lying in one of the back rooms, alone and cold? Would the coroner be pulling into the driveway at any moment to take him away? At this thought, Gillian's stomach lurched, and the desire to vomit almost overwhelmed her. Oh, God. She had killed him.

"Foster!"

Gillian realized that she was clutching her stomach and staring at the officer, who no longer looked aroused—he looked disturbed. But it was not he who had called her name. Ben Reynolds had just emerged from the house and was jogging across the lawn toward her, his face a picture of seriousness. Gillian quickly tried to compose herself, swallowing her nausea and straightening up.

"Get back to work," Reynolds barked at the cop, who immediately sprang to it, looking terrified. Reynolds's face softened considerably when he saw Gillian; no doubt he was still able to see her fear.

"Sorry," he said. "It was like this when I got here—I came as soon as I got your call."

"Ben, what's going on? You didn't—he's not—?"

"No. He's not inside. We don't know where he is."

"Then why are there so many people here? I mean, it seems sort of excessive for an open door and some spilled alcohol, doesn't it?"

Ben sighed and pursed his lips—a sure sign that he was keeping something from her, something which he was not eager to share.

"Ben? Ben," said Gillian, "tell me that I called you here for nothing. It's got to be something stupid. This is just Cal being Cal, right? You're holding your breath. What don't you want to tell me?"

"It could just be Lightman," said Reynolds. "I've seen him do some stupid ass stuff. I'm not saying that isn't a possibility."

"But?"

"I was just talking to the cop in charge, you know, asking why they called in the extra squad cars. He showed me around. There's some evidence of some foul play."

"Foul play?" The nausea was back. "What does that mean?"

Reynolds shook his head.

"It might be nothing, Gillian. I mean, I don't know what the man does with his free time, and according to you it's not exactly a new thing if he decided to take a little unannounced vacation. Let me show you what they're talking about. You know him better than I do—maybe you can tell us what the hell is going on."

He jerked his shoulder to indicate that she should follow him. Gillian hesitated, her eyes lingering over the two policemen who were standing in the doorway talking, then drifting to the driveway, where Cal's car sat, being examined by another uniformed cop. It was all policemen—Reynolds had not called in the cavalry. She assumed this meant that he had not mentioned her panicked phone call to anyone at the FBI—now he was waiting for her to tell him whether or not he ought to panic. But she needed him to tell her that she didn't need to worry…that was why she had called him.

"Are you sure I should go in?" she asked.

"The badge is an all-access pass, Gillian," said Reynolds, with just a touch of impatience (the impatience had to be a good thing, thought Gillian. He wouldn't be frustrated with Cal if he thought something awful had happened to him).

Gillian nodded briskly, her lips pressed tight together, and followed Reynolds across the lawn. The policemen in the doorway parted as soon as they saw the pair coming, their heads bowed in a sort of ridiculous reverence for Reynolds. Reynolds swept past them and stopped just inside the door, so that there was enough room for Gillian to enter behind him.

As soon as she was inside, Gillian was hit with another wave of horror, again strong enough to make her feel physically ill. It was the smell of the place that did it. Smell, which was the sense most strongly associated with memory, which made her want to turn and run out of the house all over again. It was the wine—the bottle Cal had smashed against the wall. No one had bothered to clean it up, and the sickly sweet odor was pervasive. But Gillian could not run. She took a deep gulp of air, held it until the scent faded, and then let it out. Nothing to worry about yet. She had been expecting the wine. She was a little thrown when a quick glance in the dining room revealed the stains left by the dried wine, which she had not been able to see in the dark, but again, it was nothing to lose her head over. She had been there for that part.

But what had happened after?

"I think you can see why we're concerned," said Reynolds, noting the direction of Gillian's gaze. "Does Lightman smash his liquor against walls often? We also found a bottle on the floor, but the cops picked it up after they photographed the place. They want to dust everything down. They seem to think that the bottle is an indicator of foul play…"

"No," said Gillian, swallowing hard and shaking her head as the image of Cal's face, lip drawn back in contempt, eyes cold, loomed out of the darkness of her memory. "No, I can explain that."

Quickly, she explained what had happened between her and Cal two nights ago. She told Reynolds more than she had told Loker and Torres—more than she had told anyone—but she could not bring herself to elaborate much on the details. She already had the images burned into her memory; she did not have to relive it verbally.

When she finished, Reynolds crossed his arms over his chest, frowning.

"Well, that would explain the alcohol," he said.

"You think there's more?"

"Besides the open door, the car in the driveway, and the fact that Lightman is nowhere near this place? Yeah, I think there's more. Look at that."

He nodded to a spot on the floor, where a pile of clothing lay crumpled. Gillian's heart leapt when she saw it, plummeted when she recognized it. Cal's jacket.

"What does that—?"

"His wallet was inside one of the pockets."

"Oh."

All of the fear and worry was building up, growing larger and larger, but Gillian did not feel like it was going to burst out of her, as it usually did. Rather, she felt as if something critical in her private universe had collapsed, and all of that fear and worry was being sucked deeper inside of her, having turned into a rapidly expanding black hole. There was a blank space inside of her chest, and it was growing wider.

But she could not let Reynolds see this new and horribly painful kind of distress. She turned away.

"Gillian…"

"Give me a minute."

Reynolds backed off, and Gillian wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the floor. Her arms were cold, and she pulled them in tighter, until she could almost fool herself into thinking that she was receiving a tight hug. Deep breaths. One. Two. Three. Back to reality.

Dropping her arms, she turned back to Reynolds. All business.

"That means he probably just wandered away, right? He might have called a cab. He could be on a bender—"

"Without his wallet?"

"Maybe he took a credit card."

Reynolds sighed and rubbed his mouth, looking up and away. He did not want to say what he was about to say.

"Gillian…"

"Sir?"

Both Gillian and Reynolds looked up. One of the cops was standing on the stairs, near the top, looking down at them. He had the look of a newly-trained puppy: eager to please and terrified of being punished. He had removed his hat and was twirling it in his hands, looking directly at Reynolds.

"What is it, officer?"

"Uh—sir, I think you might want to see this…" He glanced at Gillian briefly. He didn't want her to see whatever it was he was about to show the FBI agent. But Gillian was having none of that, and neither was Reynolds. With a jerk of his head to indicate that she should follow him, Reynolds headed up the stairs behind the skeptical officer, Gillian at his heels. Her nerves under control, she was able for the moment to muse on how surreal the whole situation was. How was it possible that she was climbing the stairs in Cal's home, following the officers who were there to investigate…what? His disappearance? That was the least terrifying term Gillian could think of to describe whatever had happened—was happening. She was used to crime scenes. This was not supposed to be one of them, and the fact that it was being treated as one was as strange as if she had been walking underwater—and the effect it produced was similar.

At the top of the stairs she was expecting to turn left and head into the master bedroom (which, she thought, would have been strange in itself. Though she was over here almost as often as she was at her own home now that her husband was gone, she had only been in Cal's bedroom on one or two occasions, when he had asked her to grab something or when the other bathroom had been occupied). Instead, however, the officer led them to the other door—Emily's room.

"Someone had locked the door from the inside," said the officer, casting another wary glance at Gillian. "That's why we couldn't get in before."

"Why would anyone do that?" said Reynolds. "Isn't this Emily's room?" he added to Gillian, who replied with a small nod.

"My best guess? Someone wanted to hold us up as long as they could," said the officer. Now that he and Reynolds were standing on the same level, he seemed to have gained confidence—seeing that he was taller than Reynolds had given him the boost he needed to say what it was he had called them here to say.

"I don't understand," said Reynolds. "You think someone broke in?"

The officer gave a very small nod and gestured for them to follow him. Gillian's legs were shaking, and as soon as they entered the room, she gave a small gasp and covered her mouth with her hand. The room was a mess—and not just the expected mess of a teenage girl. The covers on the bed had been rumpled toward the end instead of at the top. The window was slightly ajar, filling the room with frigid air and making Gillian shiver (though not entirely because of the cold). A lamp had been torn from the wall and lay on the floor, cracked and dark, feet away from the dresser on which it usually rested. But, worst of all was what was lying on the floor near the boudoir—a cell phone—_Cal's_ cell phone—smashed into a dozen tiny bits.

Gillian's hand went from her mouth to her chest, and she reached out for something—anything—with which to steady herself. But before she could find the bed or the wall, the officer said, "Don't touch anything," and she struggled to regain her composure.

Reynolds, meanwhile, was circling the room, giving everything a cursory glance before asking, "Why would Lightman trash his daughter's room?"

"Sir, I don't think he did," said the officer. "If you'll look at the outside of the window, there are some scratches in the paint on the sill—any I'm not part of the forensic team, but it looks to me like someone climbed up the siding and forced the window…it wasn't locked. And…um…"

Another glance at Gillian, who swallowed and tried to put on her mask of professionalism (though it was getting more difficult to do so each time she did).

"You can talk with me here," she said. "I'm just observing."

"All right," said the officer, still looking at her with skepticism all over his face. "Sir, I found some blood on the floor by the bed." He pointed.

Reynolds rounded back to the bed and leaned over to look where the officer was indicating. Gillian saw it too: a dark spot on the floor—it was not much, but it was enough.

Reynolds looked up. "Gillian…"

Gillian raised a finger. "Wait," she said. "Wait. He told me he hit his head. There was—a little bit of blood, but not much, and he was…he was fine. It's possible that's from him hitting his head, isn't it?"

"You think he hit himself in the head with a lamp?" said the officer. Gillian and Reynolds looked up at him, identical frowns on their faces. The officer was snapping a pair of gloves onto his hands. That done, he leaned down and picked up the cracked lamp. Rotating it in his hands, he held it out for them to see.

Gillian could hardly see in the dimly lit room, but she could see enough to notice the dark smudge at the end of the crack in the ceramic lamp. Reynolds saw it too.

"Shit," he said. "Shit. Gillian…I don't think there's any more room for reasonable doubt. I think I'm going to have to call this in to the bureau."

"You think the bureau is gonna wanna take this one?" said the officer. "I've already got a bunch of my men—"

"No," said Reynolds, who was rubbing his face, still looking very much like he was trying to get a grip on himself. "No, this guy's a hot-shot with FBI, TSA...well, everywhere, pretty much. If he's missing—if someone attacked him—that's our business…"

Reynold's voice faded, like at the end of some cheesy movie. Gillian was unmoving, her eyes pointed at the floor but seeing nothing, her chest heaving. Reynolds had said it—he had believed it, he was barely maintaining a hold over his own confusion and panic. He had actually said the word:

Attack.

What had she done?

But no. No, he had been drunk. She had been there, she had seen it, he had smelled the alcohol on his clothes and on his breath. He had shouted at her…shouted at her so convincingly.

_But this is Cal_.

But _why_? Why would he have lied to her? Why would he have pretended to be drunk if he wasn't—if he was in some sort of trouble?

_Damn it Cal. You never trusted me like I trust you._

Or perhaps he really had been drunk. That seemed plausible enough. It was the only way Gillian could think of that any sort of assailant would have gotten the upper hand on Cal—Cal, who could talk his way out of anything, Cal, who had been in this type of situation before and had always come out relatively unscathed…but never alone.

Gillian's stomach lurched again, but she had it under control. She had herself under control. She had to pull herself back to the conversation so that she would know what to do next, so that she would be able to help somehow. With an enormous effort, Gillian forced her head back, her eyes up, and her mind back to the present, where Reynolds and the officer were still conversing.

"One thing I don't get—actually, forget that, I don't understand any of this—but why would they lock this door? What, they wanted to hold us up for ten minutes? And besides, it's been two days since anyone saw him…"

And then it came to her, hitting her like a fist to the face. The expression on Cal's face. She gasped.

"They weren't trying to keep you out," she said.

Reynolds and the officer looked at her.

"What are you talking about, Foster?"

Gillian shook her head, her eyes wide and dry, her mouth hanging open. She registered vaguely that she must look exactly as Emily had when she had walked into the office earlier that day, but she did not bother to correct the expression.

It _was_ her fault.

But eyes were still upon her. She closed her mouth, swallowed hard, and said, "They weren't trying to keep you out. They were trying to keep me out. In case I came back."

"What? Foster, what does that mean?"

Gillian shook her head. "I think they were here…when I came to see Cal, I think they were here. I didn't realize it because I was so angry…I wasn't thinking straight, and Cal…Cal is very good. He looked…I could have sworn he was drunk, but it was dark, I couldn't see his pupils or any of the other physiological indicators…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Foster. Spit it out," said Reynolds. "You _don't _think he was drunk? Who was here? Who are you talking about?"

But Gillian could only shake her head once more. "I don't know. I don't know! But when I was here, he kept trying to push me out the door…he said…he said things I would never have thought Cal Lightman would ever say to me. And there was something else. I refused to go, at first. I refused to go and just for a second there was something else on his face, underneath all the anger. I didn't see it because I was so _mad_…"

"Gillian. What was it?"

Gillian looked up, right into Reynolds' eyes. Her own were shining with tears.

"He flashed a partial fear expression. I didn't catch it."

"He showed fear when you refused to leave?" said Reynolds, his brow wrinkled in perplexity. Then understanding caused his eyebrows to shoot up. "He showed fear because…"

"He was protecting me," Gillian whispered.

"Damn it!" Reynolds threw his head back in frustration, his cell phone clutched in one hand with vice like strength. "They were making him do it. They locked the door in case you came back to look around."

Then the frustration on Reynolds' face was gone in an instant, replaced by anger and worry and—thank God—determination.

"I'm getting my people on the line right now. You go back to Lightman Group, let Loker and Torres know what's going on—but don't spread it around until we've got a better idea exactly what the hell happened here. Stay calm, Gillian. I'm on it."

Gillian nodded, willing the tears that were rising in her eyes not to fall, and turned briskly to walk out of the room. Down the stairs, through the hall, and out the door she went, gaining speed all the way. She practically elbowed past the young officer who had been hanging tape earlier and, without stopping to apologize, she threw herself into her car.

Only when the door was shut did Gillian allow herself to break.


	9. Chapter 9

Friday, 3:30pm

**Gillian**

She had regained her composure.

Well, it was not as if she had had much of a choice. Not only was crying in her car while parked outside of Cal's house—which was now an official FBI crime scene—totally useless, she had not been able to see through the tears, and if she had not been able to force herself to stop, she would never have been capable of driving back to the office. Cal hated it when she cried in stressful situations like this anyway…not because he was insensitive, but because he thought crying was the equivalent of exposing one's jugular to a pack of ravenous wolves. He didn't want her to appear vulnerable to anyone. Because he didn't want her to get hurt.

_Two days_. What was it about kidnapping? The first forty-eight hours were the most crucial. But Cal had not been kidnapped…at least, no one was calling it that yet.

No one was calling it _anything_ yet. Reynolds had promised her more information, but that information was long in coming…or perhaps it had just felt that way. The five minutes it had taken her to regain herself in the car had seemed an eternity, and add to that the car ride back, the time spent waiting for the redness in her cheeks and eyes to subside, and the time it took to reapply her makeup and it might as well have been years since Reynolds had told her anything.

But the clock said it had not even been two hours.

No one had spoken to Emily yet. That was something Gillian wanted to reserve for a time when they had more concrete proof of what had happened…or even more concrete _theories_ about what had happened. A text sent outside of the building had Loker and Torres meeting her at the door. Thankfully, Emily had fallen asleep in Gillian's office, the exhaustion of worry having gotten the better of her. Gillian would have liked to have succumbed to the same affliction, but there was no time for that yet. Not until they had figured out what had happened.

But so far there was nothing. Loker and Torres were the only others in the office who were privy to the same information as she, since none of the other employees were as close to Lightman, nor did she trust them to remain composed…the last thing she wanted to do was cause a panic, and she knew from the debacle with the armed gunman a few weeks ago that the people here were absolutely incapable of following instructions like "Don't panic."

But all the same, they all (even Loker, who relied hugely on his cool exterior to get him through the day) were beginning to go a little crazy. They had gathered in Lightman's office to avoid disturbing Emily, but it was doing nothing for their own frazzled nerves. The space seemed disturbingly empty, and the feeling was in no way helped by the many faces of Cal that were looming down at them, most of them reflecting the seriousness which was felt by the three people in the room. Gillian could not tear her eyes away from the face which had its lip curled in disgust. She could not help feeling that it was looking at her.

None of them were speaking.

And then, at long, long last, the phone rang.

It was Gillian's cell, but they all leapt when they heard it. She fumbled in her purse for a few shaky, breathless moments, and then put it to her ear, feeling the eyes of her colleagues, along with the acute and palpable nervousness which had suddenly filled the otherwise barren office.

"Hello?"

"Gillian? Ben. Listen I'm on my way in. I'll be there in a few minutes. Can you meet me by security?"

"Of course. What's taking so long? Did you find him?"

She felt foolish for asking the question as soon as it was past her lips, but she didn't bother taking it back. Of course they had not found him yet, or it would be Cal's voice on the other line, and she would be yelling instead of muttering in a low, nervous voice. But she couldn't help but ask. Without that hope, she had nothing—literally nothing.

"No, we didn't," said Reynolds, and the sigh in his voice told her that he had sensed the desperation in her voice—and the professional, FBI agent part of him was irritated. "But one of the neighbors did come forward. Said they heard a little bit of a commotion the other night so they went to their window to look. She thinks she saw Lightman get into a van with a couple of other guys, but she couldn't give us any more information. More of a busybody than a concerned citizen, unfortunately."

Gillian swallowed hard, her eyes darting over to the worried and inquisitive faces of her colleagues.

"So you think he was kidnapped?"

"Right now that's what it looks like."

Gillian let out a breath and sank onto one of the sofas which Cal had scattered around his office. Either Reynolds had sensed her reaction or he had heard it, because he quickly said, "Listen, Gillian, this might be a good thing. It means he was alive when he left the house, and in good enough shape to be walking around."

Gillian glanced at Loker and Torres again, then ducked her head and lowered her voice even further. "But it also means whoever did this was able to get Cal to come with them—and that's not easy, Ben. And why hasn't he called? Why haven't these—_people_—called? Why haven't there been any demands?"

"I don't know, Gillian"—(Gillian vaguely registered that he was using only her first name now, trying to comfort her, but she was not sure she could find any solace in him or anyone at the moment)—"but don't worry—we've thought of the same things. Which is why I need you to meet me by the security desk. If they can get to Lightman they can get to the rest of you, so until we know what they want—or where Lightman's gone off to—I'm going to up your security. Have you told anyone else about this?"

"Loker and Torres," said Gillian, ignoring the aforementioned as they automatically stepped forward.

"All right. Well, keep it as quiet as you can. Have you gotten hold of Lightman's ex yet?"

"No. Emily's in my office, but I…haven't said anything to her yet."

"I don't think you should until we get her mom on the phone and tell her what's going on. Let her hear it from her parent."

Gillian nodded, but it was for her own comfort, trying to reassure her that this really was best. She felt like Emily trusted her—perhaps more than she trusted Zoe, if only because Gillian was not quite so erratic—and she hated to betray that, but she was certainly in no condition to be comforting anyone other than herself at the moment.

"All right. When will you be here?"

"I'm here now. Meet me at the front."

And he hung up.

Gillian instantly got to her feet, ignoring the slight head rush which hit her when she did.

"Come with me," she said, and she marched out of the office, Loker and Torres at her heels.

As they walked, Gillian filled the others in on what Reynolds had told her—which hadn't been much—in a low voice, so that the rest of the office would not hear. They must have looked strange, the three of them marching through the hallways with mingled expressions of worry and determination; especially since the entire office knew that none of them were working on a case. Maybe that explained the peculiar looks they were getting—or maybe it was the fact that they had just spent who knew how long holed up in an office without telling anyone anything about what was going on. Or maybe it was the fact that Emily Lightman had shown up that morning and had not left since, even though no one had seen her father for several days straight. Or maybe it was the fact that Ben Reynolds had just arrived and instead of entering, was standing outside the glass doors, next to the security desk, a look of startling seriousness on his face.

The three of them ignored these looks, and headed straight out the doors. Before he could say anything, Gillian signaled to Reynolds that he should step away from the door; that way they were only attracting the stares of the security guard, and he would probably need to hear most of what they were saying anyway.

"Hey," she said. "What did the neighbor say?"

"Not much," said Reynolds. "Just that it was a nondescript black van. She didn't get the license plate."

"Did she say anything about Lightman?" said Loker. "Did he look…funny?"

Reynolds shook his head. "She was a few houses away, so I doubt she could have gotten a good look even if she were trying."

"What about the guys he was with?" said Torres. "Did you at least get a description?"

She sounded irritated—her tone implying that Reynolds was somehow behaving incompetently. This annoyed Gillian, if only because Torres had yet to do anything constructive. At least Reynolds was trying to help, even if it wasn't getting them anywhere.

"All the woman could remember was that one was scrawny and the other was big—and there must have been a third, because neither of them was driving," said Reynolds, his voice considerably calmer than Gillian's would have been at that point. With a little start, she realized that he had noticed something she had failed to pick up on: Torres was simply scared, like the rest of them.

"Well that doesn't give us much to go off of," said Torres brusquely. "That was two nights ago—who knows what could have happened since then?"

"Well, at least we know Foster wasn't the last one to see him alive," said Loker.

_Well then who was_? Gillian thought, before she could even realize what that implied. _No, he's still alive_._ So who's seeing him now_?

"Excuse me?"

Everyone turned. The security guard, a young man who had only been working there for a few months, was raising his hand. Gillian registered how ridiculous he looked for just a second—a grown man (and a handsome one at that), dressed in a uniform, raising his hand to speak. But the humor didn't last long. The security guard cleared his throat.

"Um…sorry to interrupt but…are you talking about Dr. Lightman?"

Gillian was immediately on her guard, her back stiff, her hands at her sides.

"Have you seen him?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"Not since a couple of nights ago," said the guard, pulling back in surprise. "I thought that you were talking about that. I mean, I know he comes in a lot after hours, but I don't know…it was kind of weird, you know?"

"What are you talking about?" said Reynolds, stepping so that he was closer to the man and his feet were further apart, a threatening stance to establish his dominance. The guard quailed even further.

"I mean…don't you guys know?" he said, displaying his palms to show his submissiveness. "He was in here a couple of nights ago, but he only stayed a few minutes…he just fiddled with the computers and then he left. I thought it was weird because he usually stays longer, but I didn't think it was a big deal. He comes in late all the time."

Everyone was gaping at him now, and the security guard was clearly confused.

"Listen, I don't know what I said but—"

"Are you sure it was him?" Gillian said.

"Yeah…he stopped here so I could let him in. I was covering the night shift for Herman…you know, because he has the thing with his wife."

"Do you remember what he said?" Torres said, her stance almost identical to Reynolds's.

"Um…"

"Anything you can remember," said Loker. "Anything at all."

The guard shrugged. "I don't know…I can't remember exactly…he didn't say a lot…"

The four of them sagged visibly, the weight of disappointment suddenly quadrupling.

"But I still have it on the tapes if you want to take a look."

* * *

Twelve minutes later, having cleared the video lab, Reynolds, Torres, Loker, and Gillian sat down as the security guard pulled up the tapes from two nights ago (using his own computer, as the ones in the lab were still refusing to cooperate). He wound through a whole lot of inactivity, then came to a halt just before eight thirty. Gillian's heart began to pound as she saw Cal round a corner and come into view of the camera which was poised over the security desk. He looked…haggard. There was not better word for it. The blood on his head was conspicuously absent (well, conspicuous for her, who had seen it just an hour before this tape was shot), but his hair was tousled, and his one-sided slouch was more pronounced than usual.

Those who were watching the tape held their breath as Lightman approached the desk, making the room so quiet that nothing but the tape and the low hum of the projector could be heard.

"Hello," said Lightman. His voice was calm, casual, and showed no hint that he was under any sort of duress. _What the hell_?

The security guard looked up.

"Dr. Lightman. Getting some late work done?"

"Sort of. Just came to check up on things, really. I need to get into the computers but it seems I've left my keycard at home—think you can help me out?"

"Sure thing."

The guard went to open the door for Cal. Had he been here longer, he might have known that Lightman never went _anywhere_ without his key—it was practically a religious talisman. But he had not, and he did not. He merely opened the door.

"Nice night for a walk, right—what did you say your name was?"

"Charlie," said the guard.

"Right. Charlie. Well? What d'you think? Am I crazy for coming here or what?" Lightman was flashing him a grin, letting his know he was joking, but Charlie responded hesitantly, unsure of what to do when faced with a superior.

The guard laughed nervously. "I don't know, sir. I don't like the cold, I guess."

"Yeah, me neither. That's why I'm getting out of here as fast as I can, before the engine freezes over."

"Okay, Dr. Lightman."

Lightman walked past the guard, continuing his cocky grin until he was well past him. The screen switched to the hall, where Lightman's face hardened into a look of seriousness as he walked quickly toward the very lab in which Gillian and the others now sat, still slouching heavily.

"That was weird," Torres mumbled. "Why would he say that to the guard? And why doesn't he look…scared?"

"Because he's the best," said Loker. "He can disguise his face, maybe, but I think he's speaking in some sort of code. What's 'cold' code for?"

"Nothing," said Reynolds, and everyone looked at him in surprise. "And anyway, I don't care. What is he doing now?"

They all turned their attention back to the screen, which had switched to a shot of the lab as Lightman entered it. He looked around once, as if he were checking the corners for intruders, then headed straight for the main computer.

There was a small sound of disbelief from behind Gillian, and when she looked around, she saw that Loker had leaned back and was staring at the screen with an open-mouthed smile of astonishment. Gillian didn't understand it—all Cal was doing was typing, hunched over the computer in such a way that they wouldn't be able to see the screen or the keyboard.

"What?" she said.

"He did something to the computers," said Loker, pointing. "That's why we haven't been able to get to any of the files—he messed them up somehow!"

"Why?" said Gillian, whipping back around to stare as Cal continued to type. No one answered.

He typed for another minute, then stopped abruptly and stood. As soon as he moved away from the computer, they saw that the computer screen had gone blank, already switched off. Having done whatever he had done, Cal turned sharply and walked out of the lab.

"Did he leave some sort of message?" said Gillian, turning to Loker. Loker merely shook his head.

"I would have seen it by now, I've been on that thing nonstop for days."

"Why is he walking like that?"

Gillian and Loker looked back at the screen, at which Torres was now pointing. Lightman was in the hall, slouching just as he had before.

"Like what?" said Reynolds.

"He's slouching…"

"He always slouches."

"He's slouching on the wrong side," said Torres. "Pause it there."

The guard complied, freezing the tape on an image of Cal with one shoulder drooping heavily, his arms swung out wide, as if he were relying more on his arms to pump him along than on his legs.

"He's limping," said Torres. "But he's trying to cover it up."

"Why would he do that?" said Loker, but as soon as confusion appeared on his and Torres's faces, comprehension dawned on Reynolds's.

"For the same reason he talked to the guard about the cold. He doesn't want to be there…he was trying to say that he didn't want to come, but someone was forcing him. Someone was watching him."

"How?" said Torres, sounding horrified.

"His laptop," said Loker. "It has access to all of the security cameras—remember how he spied on us from Mexico?"

At this, Reynolds swore and leapt to his feet.

"I didn't even think to check for the laptop," he said, anger etched all over his face. He whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and began dialing.

But Gillian wasn't listening. Her eyes were still on the screen. They had travelled from Cal's legs to his hands, where two swollen and purple fingers stood out brilliantly even in the dark, and then from his fingers to his chest, swollen with the effort it was taking to draw breath without showing any pain. From there they went to his face. By some accident, Torres had told the guard to pause the tape right as Lightman looked up, right into the camera. And Gillian nearly broke once more when she read what was written there.

Pain. Fear. Anger. And—worst of all—a desperate, pleading call for help.


	10. Chapter 10

**Oh man. I…am really sorry. I wish I had a fantastic excuse for everyone, but I'm pretty sure all I have is one excuse followed by a ton more excuses which all piled up into a five month period of waiting for all of you—and after you were such wonderful readers. I don't think I can apologize enough, so I'm just going to say sorry one more time and hope that there are a few of you out there who are still willing to read this story. Special thanks to the few of you who expressed concern for my well-being, specifically RedHotLover—this chapter is dedicated to you!**

Wednesday, 8:47 pm

**Cal**

Although it was already frigid, the night seemed to have gotten colder by the time Cal had made his way back into the parking garage. He was no longer bothering to cover the limp; the pain of the twisted—or broken—ankle had intensified due to the effort he had expended trying to cover it up. His teeth were bared against the pain and cold, and the anger which was threatening to overwhelm his sensibilities. The security guard had not picked up on his subtleties—he did not know why he had expected him to—but perhaps someone else would see the tape, someone who would be able to tell that he did not want to be there, that there was, in fact, something terribly wrong.

Cal's stomach twisted horribly as he thought of the look on Dan's face as he had assured him that he would be fine, that innocent eagerness, almost as if he were looking for Cal to reinforce his naïveté—followed by the utter disbelief that his brother would have lied to him at all…And then the look of total, violent sadism on the brother's face, pervasive and terrifying. Cal was not looking forward to seeing the look on Dan's face when his brother proved him wrong…though, he thought bitterly as he stumped closer to where the black van was idling, that ought to have been the least of his worries. His heart was thumping in his chest, an ironic reminder that he was still alive, for now, and his conflicting desires—to run or to rip the heads off the shoulders of his kidnappers with his bare hands—were threatening to send him into a nervous fit. The closer he drew to the van the more it seemed running was going to win out…but the image of Emily's face was burned into his mind. He kept going.

For a moment, he hoped that, should he die, his family would somehow know that he had died trying to protect them. But he supposed that didn't matter much.

When he was within five feet of the van, the back door slid open with a thunk that resounded throughout the garage and Dan appeared, his face twisted into a mask of fear, his hands waving frantically at Cal, _Hurry up_!

Cal could not even summon the strength to compose his face into something resembling defiance. Blank exhaustion was the best he could do, though he could not help but feel proud that he was able to keep fear from his expression. Panting, he climbed back into the van, cradling his injured arm. He collapsed on his crate without a word. His leg was trembling violently, and would not support him for another minute if he tried. Dan pulled the door shut.

"You," said Dan's brother, rising from his seat and jerking his head at his brother. "Get up here."

With a terrified glance at Cal, Dan scrambled to comply. He and his brother switched positions, so that Dan was sitting in the front seat and his brother on the crate next to Cal's. Some distant part of Cal's mind wondered what had happened in his absence to make Dan's lip tremble and his eyes dart back and forth like that, but it did not seem like the most pressing issue at the moment. Dan's brother was staring at him, and however scared Dan looked, his brother looked ten times as composed, his face a picture of eerie calm, save for the almost imperceptible curl of his lip which showed his contempt for Cal. Cal was already expending most of his energy keeping his head up—tearing heads off was out of the question, then—but he forced himself to keep eye contact with the brother, even made a valiant effort to sit up straighter to lessen the man's sense of power.

Cal was not going to be the first one to speak—in a staredown like this, talking first would be tantamount to admitting weakness—and so he stared. He stared until the sneer of contempt turned into a hate-filled scowl and, before Cal had time to react the brother had hit him full in the face.

Cal was nearly knocked off his crate, but he caught himself by flinging his injured hand to the floor. The searing protest in his fingers was drowned out by the screaming pain in his head, as if the brother had rent his skull in two. The pain was enough to turn Cal's vision white, enough to knock the breath out of him. He barely heard the brother as he snarled, "Start the car!" or the engine as it roared to life. He just barely felt the van jerk out of the parking spot, but his vision did not return until they were almost out of the garage. When it did, Cal sat up, spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor—the man had knocked a tooth loose—and said, "I thought it was too much to hope for a simple thank you."

This was enough to earn him a slap across the face, though it was not enough to knock him backward again.

"What the fuck was that?" said the brother.

Cal swallowed another mouthful of blood before replying.

"I did exactly what you asked."

"Like hell you did. What about the fucking security guard?"

Cal's heart leapt. People like Dan's brother were supposed to be incapable of identifying human emotion—how could he have deciphered the meaning of Cal's conversation with the security guard when the security guard himself had not been able to? It did not seem possible, so Cal decided to play dumb.

"I don't know—"

This time the brother backhanded him, and Cal felt his cheek sting, something warm dribbling down his face from just below his eye. He reached up to wipe the blood away, looked at it, sticky and shiny in the little light from the street that had penetrated the van, then looked at the ring on the brother's middle finger.

"You know," he said, "it's very hard to carry on a conversation when you keep hitting me in the face."

"He's right," said Dan in a shaky voice that was almost a whisper. "Come on, leave him alone."

"You stay the fuck out of this!" said the brother, pointing a finger at Dan, who cringed at the threatening male gesture but did not turn around.

"But he did what we wanted—"

"What did I just say?"

"But—"

"No, he's right Dan, this is between us," said Cal, who could see the brother's anger building once more, "you just watch the road, all right?"

"You told him your name?" shouted the brother, making to stand from his crate.

Cal cursed himself silently. He must have been more fuzzy than he thought, to make a slip like that. Dan's face went from desperate to horrified, but before his brother could make a move Cal had grabbed his arm and pulled him back onto the crate.

"I guessed," he said, and he had to work harder than ever to keep his voice casual. "I don't know if you'd noticed, but I'm good at reading people." A sloppy grin to top it off, not meant to be endearing, but to turn the anger from Dan back to him. To drive it home, he nodded at the ring and said, "That's a very interesting ring you're wearing there. Gift from a friend, I'm guessing?"

With a grunt, the brother tore his arm from Cal's grip.

"You think you're being funny, huh?" he said. "I guess that's why you stopped to talk to the guard, huh? Thought that would be funny too? You're just a funny guy, right?"

The brother plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cell phone, which he flipped open. With a jolt of terror, Cal flung a hand up.

"Stop, stop!" he said. "The guard didn't suspect anything—I swear he didn't, I would have seen it!"

"You weren't supposed to talk to anyone!"

"No," said Cal, "no, that wasn't in the agreement, you only said—hey! You _only_ said I couldn't arouse suspicion. I didn't. All right?" He put his hands up defensively, as if the brother were pointing a gun at him rather than a phone. "Listen, if I hadn't made small talk with the guard, _that_ would have been suspicious. If I had ignored him, if I had just burst in, he might have picked up a sense of desperation, and it's his job to call the cops if he sees any of those things. I saved your asses by talking to him, all right?"

Glaring at Cal, as if he were trying to read him, the brother lowered to phone.

"Fine," he said, "fine. But you can be goddamn sure that we'll keep our eyes on that place for the rest of the night. If that guard even begins to call the cops, I'll give the order on your wife and daughter so fast neither of them will have time to blink between the time I put down the phone and they're both dead."

Cal swallowed hard, and now the effort was coming not from remaining upright, but from trying to keep the hatred from creeping into his expression.

"Duly noted," he said.

The brother nodded, glanced over his shoulder—checking their location through the windshield, thought Cal—and said, "Fine," again. "Did you do it?"

"The files are gone, yeah," said Cal. "They won't be able to access the computer to figure out what happened either. Not unless I tell them how."

This was it—the moment which would determine what happened next. Cal was struggling to keep his eyes open, his head spinning as violently as it was, but he forced himself to watch the brother's face as carefully as possible while he reacted. The man's expression changed, but not in the way Cal had hoped it would. His pupils dilated, the corners of his mouth drew upward into a manic smile. He was not remorseful, or angry, or even hateful. He was excited.

The hatred and anger suddenly left Cal as well, but they were replaced by a very different emotion: terror. His shoulders sagged, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out as the brother turned around. He let out a shaky breath as the man said, "Turn up here. Go down Sixteenth and or fuck's sake, go slow—but don't attract attention."

The brother returned his gaze to Cal, still grinning. Cal pressed his lips together and forced himself to return the stare.

"Hey—wait. He lives on the other side of town. We have to turn around."

The brother's smile grew wider at Dan's voice, high-pitched with confusion, but Cal's heart plummeted. He closed his eyes—for God's sake, they didn't have to make the kid witness this—and heard the brother say, "Dan, why don't you open up the glove box and get your ass back here with that little bag inside?"

When Cal opened his eyes, Dan was already clambering into the back, his fist clenched tight over a crumpled paper bag which was sagging with the weight of whatever was inside. He handed the bag to his brother and turned to resume his place by the driver, but his brother grabbed his arm and forced him to remain crouching on the floor in front of Cal. Dan hung his head, avoiding looking into Cal's face. Cal could still feel the blood dripping from his wounds where the ring had cut him, on both sides of his face—he must have received a cut from the first punch as well, though he had been too distracted by the blinding pain in his head at the time.

"What's going on?" Dan mumbled, not willing to look his brother in the eye, either. "Why aren't we taking him back?"

The brother continued to grin, and he slapped his brother on the back with unnecessary force, though he was looking at Cal.

"Well, Dan, we could bring him back, but that would cost you the opportunity to learn a very valuable life lesson. Hey, Dr. Lightman. Why don't you join my brother on the floor for a minute?

Cal could not help it. He was shaking all over. But he managed to flash a look of hatred at the brother as he stumbled off of his crate.

"On your knees, please."

The false civility was going to push Cal over the edge, but he thought he knew what was in the bag, and it gave him to choice but to comply. He got on his knees, watching Dan carefully.

Dan's expression had gone from pleading to desperate confusion in less than a second. He looked from Cal to his brother and back again a few times before saying, "What is this? I thought we were going to take him home?"

"Dan—," Cal began.

"Shut up, Dr. Lightman," said the brother.

Dan fixed his gaze on his brother.

"You told me you weren't going to hurt him," he said, his voice trembling with fear and tinged with a hint of betrayal.

"I was telling the truth, Danny," said the brother, wrapping an arm around Dan's shaking shoulders. "I have absolutely no intention of hurting Dr. Lightman here. But you didn't really think we were just gonna drive him home, did you, little brother? This isn't the fucking elementary school carpool."

He said this in the most pleasant voice.

"But—!"

"Here you go, Danny."

The man pressed the paper bag to his brother's chest. Dan's hands trembled as he reached up to take it. Under his brother's stare he opened the bag and withdrew the gun Cal had known would be inside, his hands now trembling so badly that he could barely hold it.

"No—please! Come on, let's just—"

"Dan," said the brother. "Shut the fuck up."

Dan fell silent.

Cal could barely breathe as he tried to get his brain working again. There had to be some way out of this…But all he could do was look from the gun in Dan's hand to the look on the brother's face.

"Now, Dan," said the brother. "If you're done being an idiot, we can get this over with and go home. You wanted to come along, little brother. Well, it's time to make yourself useful. You want to get paid like me, it's time you started acting like me. Okay, buddy?"

As he spoke, the brother adjusted the gun in Dan's hands so that it was pointing at Cal and then, as casually as if he were flicking a light switch, cocked the hammer back. Dan let him do it, his mouth hanging open in shock, his eyes wide and dry and staring at Cal, pleading for his help. But Cal was helpless.

"Okay, Dan," said the brother. "I think we're all tired and would like to go home. So let's make this fucking quick."

Dan did not move, nor did he look away from Cal. Cal's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, threatening to cut off his air and his speech. Yet through his fear he managed to form one word.

"Dan."

Dan jolted, as if Cal had shocked him. Cal swallowed.

"Dan, you don't have to do this. You don't have to listen to him. Please, Dan. You know you don't want to do this."

"Dan," said the brother in the same pleasant voice. "If you don't kill him, I'll fucking kill you. And then I'll kill him anyway."

"Dan." Cal's voice was hoarse. "Dan, if you do this—it will change you, forever. You don't want to shoot me. You know it. I can see it in your face, Dan. You have an option—you don't have to do what he says."

"Dan. Hurry the fuck up."

"Dan, don't."

"Dan, fucking do it."

"Dan!"

Suddenly, Dan turned his head to look at his brother.

"Please, Aaron, I can't—"

_Bang_.

The van hit a pothole and with a flash like a firework and a crack that sounded oddly muted to Cal, the gun went off. The world turned sideways, and a rushing filled Cal's ears, almost like his head had been pushed underwater. He did not feel scared anymore. He could not breathe.

Far away—very far away—he heard someone shout, Pull over!

And then the door was being pulled open to reveal a dark alley, filled with trash. The image rolled—because Cal was being rolled, though he could not feel it—and then he smacked against the pavement, scraping one side of his face as he fell. He did not feel that either.

Somewhere above him, the van door slid shut. And then there was nothing but the taillights, two red dots being swallowed by the rapidly growing darkness.


End file.
